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"0  Lilian,  Lilian!"  I  screamed,  almost  repenting  my  row. 

The  chord  was  struck! 

It  was  a  plaintive  minor,  but  one  small  note  transposed  it  to  a  joyous  major. 


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Minor  Chord 


A   Tale  of  the  Middle  West 
in  the  Early  '70s 


S»3 


©5 


BY 


JOE  MITCHELL  CHAPPLE 


m 
'aw 


1912 

Chappie  Publishing  Company,  Ltd. 

BOSTON 


Gjpyright 

JOE  MITCHELL  CHAPPLE 
Boston,  Mass. 


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CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I  Something  Akin  to  Soul  Secrets 1 

II  Those  Scenes  of  Childhood 6 

III  Crushed  by  a  Panic 14 

IV  First  Impulse  of  a  Public  Career 24 

V  First  Conquest  on  the  Stage 33 

VI  The  Breaking  of  Home  Ties 39 

VII  On  to  Boston 44 

VIII  The  Old  Home  Saved 60 

IX  A  Concert  Tour 70 

X  Father  Launches  into  Politics 78 

XI  My  First  Sweetheart 84 

XII  The  Entrance  and  Exit  at  College 96 

XIII  The  First  Break  in  the  Circle 110 

XIV  Father's  Belated  Pension  Arrives 115 

XV  The  Glorious  Fourth 128 

XVI  Our  Pioneer  Life    139 

XVII  The  Rift  in  the  Lute 157 

XVIII  At  Home  Again 170 

XIX  My  Success  as  a  Soloist      176 


iViS'P'SlGl 


CONTENTS— Contimied 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

XX  I  Meet  Gene  Paroski 186 

XXI  The  Boat  Race     191 

XXII  My  Debut    198 

XXIII  Life  in  Paris 209 

XXIV  At  Covent  Garden 216 

XXV  Berlin  and  Gene  Paroski 226 

XXVI  Going  Home  Again 239 

XXVII  Home  Once  More 246 

XXVIII  I  Leave  America 253 

XXIX  Amid  the  Alps 264 

XXX  I  Sing  at  Bayreuth 270 

XXXI  An  Operatic  Failure 277 

XXXII  Professional    Envy    and   Feminine 

Spite 283 

XXXIII  Some  Domestic  Tragedies 292 

XXXIV  The  Tour  in  America 296 

XXXV  The  Old  Hearthstone  Vanishes.  ...   301 

XXXVI  The  Insane  Aeronaut 308 

XXXVII  A  Pretty  Wedding 315 

XXXVIII  The  Heart  Chord 321 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


"0  Lilian,  Lilian!"  I  screamed,  almost  repenting  my  vow. 
The  chord  uas  struck! 

It  was  a  plaintive  minor,  but  one  small  note  transposed  it  to  a 
joyous  major. 

"On  you,  my  priceless  little  sweetheart,  it  all  depends." 

The  low,  rolling  hills  opposite  appeared  as  mountains  to  my 
childish  fancy. 

A  general  merchandise  store,  to  which  the  farmers  came  every 
Saturday  from  miles  around  to  obtain  needed  S2ipplies  in 
exchange  for  butter  and  eggs. 

"Well,  Robert,  it  is  cruel,  it  is  wrong,  but  they  will  take  the 
property." 

"She  wants  three  hundred  dollars  to  pay  that  mortgage  what's 
being  sold  today  at  her  home." 

It  was  on  a  gentle  night  in  June. 

"Come  Thou  fount  of  every  blessing,  tune  my  heart  to  sing  Thy 
praise." 

"That  be  blowed!  Your  botheration  poor  management  wHl  'ave 
us  hall  in  the  work'ouse." 

"Oh,  you're  too  big  now.  Besides,  Tim.  youve-^ou've  got  a 
moustache." 

At  last  my  Elsa  was  appreciated,  and  I  had  found  what  I 
wanted — a  sympathetic  Lohengrin. 


THE  MINOR  CHORD 

A  Tale  of  the  Middle  West 
in  the  Early  70's 


CHAPTER  I 
Something  Akin  to  Soul  Secrets 

NOT  long  ago  an  obscure  American  girl, 
now  it  would  seem  as  if  I  had  nothing 
left  to  wish  for,  and  yet  how  empty 
and  unsatisfying  success  seems  unless  one  can 
confide  the  dearest  wishes  of  the  heart's  heart 
in  retrospect. 

In  the  zenith  of  my  career  as  a  prima  donna, 
known  in  the  foyers  of  every  great  city,  the 
cynosure  of  the  glow  of  the  footlights,  the 
plaudits  of  audiences  in  both  hemispheres, 
the  appreciative  praise  of  great  critics  and  the 
esteem  and  adoration  of  a  host  of  admirers — 
I  am  alone  with  mv  memories. 


2  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

Like  the  wife  of  Midas  who,  with  her  pretty 
Grecian  mouth  buried  in  the  grass-roots, 
whispered  the  shameful  secret  "Midas  has  asses' 
ears,"  I  must  tell  the  story;  and  so  I  have 
begun  a  long-debated  purpose,  the  recital  of  a 
tale  of  the  INIiddle  West  in  the  early  seventies. 

My  real  life  history  has  been  too  common- 
place to  appear  romantic;  my  manager's 
version  has  over-gilded  humble  conditions 
which  must  never  be  revealed  until  my  stage 
career  is  over.  And  so,  in  all  my  triumphs, 
though  known  everywhere,  yet  I  am  unknown, 
miserably  unknown,  except  to  those  whom  I 
have  loved — and  lost. 

Full  well  I  know  that,  like  the  Grecian 
queen,  my  confidence  may  be  betrayed,  my 
secret  escape  me.  Even  as  the  very  grasses 
and  lowly  wildflowers  whispered  to  the  zephyrs, 
and  the  zephyrs  carried  it  to  the  clematis  and 
laurels  until  the  whole  vale  was  susurrant  and 
murmuring  with  the  sibilant  refrain,  "Midas 
has  asses'  ears,"  so  any  accident,  the  curiosity 
of  a  maid,  yes,  or  the  malignity  of  a  rival, 
would  make  these  avowals  a  reef  on  which  to 
wreck    my    career,    perhaps    my    reputation. 


THE   MINOR   CHORD  S 

Men  of  genius  in  all  ages  have  sought  to 
dissect  and  analyze  the  heart  of  woman  and 
to  lay  bare  its  mysteries  in  song  and  fiction, 
painting  and  sculpture;  but  the  greatest  men 
who  weigh  the  emotions  and  hearts  of  their 
fellow-creatures  as  in  a  balance  fail  in  the 
study  of  the  feminine  heart  to  enter  its  "holy 
of  holies"  and  to  carry  away  with  them  the 
secret  key  of  a  woman's  soul. 

We  instinctively  keep  back  from  father, 
brother,  lover  and  husband  an  inexpressible 
something  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave.  How- 
ever frank  and  generous  a  woman  may  be  with 
the  man  she  loves,  she  has  likings,  little  ambi- 
tions, secret  hopes  and  purposes,  which,  how- 
ever innocent  or  praiseworthy,  she  shrinks 
from  sharing  with  the  other  sex.  My  own 
strenuous  and  severely  disciplined  career  has 
steeled  me  against  the  outward  manifestation 
of  the  softer  emotions  and  passions;  but  under 
the  proud  face  and  filmy  breastknots  of  priceless 
lace  they  smoulder  still,  and  often  threaten  to 
flash  into  fierce  flame,  when  in  the  mirror  of 
niemorv  I  catch  the  reflection  of  jovs  that  have 
been,   sorrows   that   smote,   and   injuries   that 


4  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

remain  unatoned — and  unforgiven.  But  these 
are  only  "wraiths  of  the  sea-mists,"  and  I 
must  survey  the  panorama  of  the  past.  I  must 
recall  it. 

So  I  have  chosen  this  little  book  as  my  con- 
fidant. "And  perhaps  hereafter,"  as  Virgil 
says  by  the  lips  of  ^neas,  "it  will  delight  us  to 
have  remembered  these  things,"  or  at  worst, 
when  my  voice  has  become  one  of  that  supernal 
chorus,  in  the  land  where  "beyond  these 
partings  there  is  peace,"  my  critics,  private 
and  public,  will  be  more  lenient  in  their  com- 
ments on  poor  Minza.  Hush!  how  strangely 
the  old,  odd,  love-name  sounds. 

Here  I  need  make  no  apology  for  egotism. 
I  know  my  own  powers,  although  I  may  not 
appreciate  my  own  weaknesses;  but  these 
petty  considerations  have  little  place  in  this 
personal  communication  between  myself  and 
my  Maker.  How  trivial  and  infinitesimal  they 
seem,  when  one  comes  before  God  and  seeks 
the  divine  consolation. 

How  my  manager  would  rave  if  he  saw  this 
book!  He  would  probably  suggest  that  I 
should  cloister  myself  before  I  began  to  disclose 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  5 

these  soul-secrets.  His  theory  of  Hfe  is  that 
every  utterance  should  dazzle,  startle  and 
attract,  and  that  a  pure,  homely,  old-fashioned, 
honest  Christian  faith  is  hardly  the  thing  for 
a  successful  operatic  prima  donna. 

Thus  I  wrote  but  a  few  months  ago,  when 
I  began  this  crude  biography  of  a  life. 


CHAPTER  II 

Those  Scenes  of  Childhood 

I  AM  an  American,  and  proud  of  my  origin, 
although  I  cannot  chiim  a  classic  birth- 
place, rich  in  historical  associations.  In 
fact,  I  believe  my  stage  biographer  has  sadly, 
but  innocently  perhaps,  deceived  the  public. 
On  the  banks  of  what  was  twenty  years  ago 
a  sluggish  stream,  in  a  miasmatic  "fever-and- 
ague  bottom"  in  the  state  of  Iowa,  I  was  born. 
The  old  house  was  small,  but  neatly  painted, 
and  mother's  rose  trees  and  old-fashioned 
garden-borders  gave  it  a  charm  that  the  newer 
and  larger  homestead  that  replaced  it  has  never 
dissolved.  Indeed,  as  I  write,  my  first  memo- 
ries of  that  prosaic  little  village  are  still  un- 
broken by  time  or  change.  The  neighbors' 
houses,  some  more  pretentious  and  others  even 
more  humble  than  our  own ;  the  village  church, 
with  its  tall  spire  and  ample  horse  sheds  for  the 
convenience  of  distant  worshippers;  the  town 
hall,    weather-beaten,    but    inspiring    to    my 

6 


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if^ 


The  Inir.  rolling  hills  opposite  appeared  as  inoiiiitains  to  mij  childish 

fancy 


THE   MINOR   CHORD  7 

unsophisticated  eyes,  and  the  vilhige  stores, 
Httle  hotel,  grimy  bhicksmith  shop  and  grain 
elevators — all  were  dignified  factors  of  that 
"civilization  and  prosperity"  of  which  the  local 
paper  and  politicians  discoursed  so  wisely  and 
enthusiastically  to  the  great  and  complacent 
satisfaction  of  the  community.  But  more 
immediately  within  view  of  the  narrow  portals 
and  windows  of  our  home  lay  the  greatest 
charm  of  my  girlish  surroundings.  The  fa- 
miliar old  grist  mill,  where  farmers  brought 
their  wheat  to  grind,  with  its  lazy  water-wheel, 
and  the  dam  which  backed  up  the  water  of 
the  creek  making  it  a  large  shallow  lake:  this 
was  to  me  in  childhood  as  great  as  an  ocean. 
The  low  rolling  hills  opposite  appeared  as 
mountains  to  my  childish  fancy;  but  in  later 
years  the  landscape  seems  to  have  shrunken, 
and  of  the  grove  of  oaks,  maples  and  elms 
about  the  house,  which  we  loved  as  if  they  were 
human  beings~we  christened  each  tree  with 
pet  names  from  our  history  lessons — only  "old 
Napoleon,"  the  walnut  tree,  remains  now  to 
mark  the  spot  of  childhood's  loveliest  and  most 
restful  retreat. 


8  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

My  dear  father  was  a  kindly,  honest  English- 
man, who  came  to  America  to  make  his  fortune. 
He  married  an  American  girl,  proud-spirited 
and  beautiful,  accomplished  in  music,  art  and 
housekeeping  and  a  true  helpmeet  in  every 
sense  of  the  word.  They  settled  in  the  "Middle 
West"  to  "grow  up  with  the  country,"  which 
father  loved  as  if  he  had  been  born  upon 
its  soil,  and  proved  his  sincerity  by  joining 
a  fighting  Iowa  regiment,  which  won  its  laurels, 
with  many  casualties  at  Shiloh  and  the  siege 
of  Vicksburg,  not  to  speak  of  many  minor 
skirmishes.  If  father  had  a  fault  it  was  a  large 
generosity  that  could  not  refuse  aid  or  credit 
to  a  man  in  distress,  and  a  weakness  for  accu- 
mulating land,  for  like  his  English  ancestors, 
he  desired  a  large  estate  rather  than  a  great 
name  or  hoarded  wealth.  He  was  always 
lovable  and  loving,  and  loved  us  all,  but 
mother  was  his  queen,  charming  and  splendid 
in  his  eyes  to  the  end  of  life. 

I  w^as  the  first-born,  and  must  have  been  a 
very  troublesome  baby,  but  mother  used  to 
say,  "There's  one  virtue  Minza  possesses — 
she's  never  idle." 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  9 

She  left  me  alone  one  day  while  she  went 
across  the  way  to  help  a  neighbor  with  a  sick 
child,  and  the  bread  pan,  which  was  standing 
by  the  stove  full  of  dough,  mixed  and  ready 
for  kneading  and  baking,  was  too  tempting 
for  my  budding  artistic  genius;  and  on  her 
return  she  found  the  chairs,  bureau,  little  old 
piano  and  "whatnot"  lavishly  sculptured  with 
the  dough.  I  shall  never  forget  the  expression 
on  her  face.  I  remember  this  incident,  because 
it  is  my  first  memory  of  a  man  who  was  largely 
responsible  in  forming  my   career. 

Old  Dr.  Waddington  it  was,  who  just  then 
came  in  and  saw  my  handiwork.  He  was  a  very 
portly  man  and  the  original  founder  of  the 
village.  In  fact  he  had  christened  it  *'Smith- 
ville"  in  honor  of  his  former  home  in  the  eastern 
states.  American  towns,  as  a  rule,  do  not 
possess  particularly  expressive  and  charac- 
teristic names,  for  they  grow  and  multiply 
so  rapidly  that  it  is  rather  difficult,  as  in  the 
case  of  parents  with  a  rapidly  increasing 
family,  to  find  names  enough  to  go  round. 

He  looked  at  me  a  minute,  and  said  to 
mother:    "I  think  she  had  better  be  brought 


10  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

down  tomorrow,  as  I  have  sent  for  Dr.  Griffin 
to  assist  in  the  operation." 

I  remember  the  shudder  mother  gave,  and 
how  quickly  she  lifted  me  up  and  kissed  me. 

"Will  it — what  do  you  think — Doctor,  is 
there  any  danger .''" 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Maxwell,  I  cannot  tell. 
The  case  is  very  puzzling,  but  I  have  great 
faith  in  Dr.  Griffin,  and  we  will  warn  you 
in  time  should  dangerous  symptoms  suddenly 
develop." 

Those  were  his  words  as  nearlv  as  I  can 
remember.  It  was  an  anxious  night,  and 
father  did  not  go  to  his  business  next  morning, 
and  when  we  started  out  he  carried  me  in  his 
arms,  which  I  thought  unusually  kind  of  him. 
When  danger  threatens,  how  dearly  parents 
love  their  children.  He  hugged  me  tightly,  and 
mother  carried  wee  baby  Joe,  as  we  went  to 
the  photographer's,  and  when  we  entered  the 
dressing-room  to  prepare  for  the  picture, 
mother  burst  into  tears. 

"O  Robert,  how  can  we  permit  it.f*" 

The  scene  was  like  that  of  a  funeral.  I 
remember  how  the  pretty  little  imitation  stumps 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  11 

and  trees  for  the  background  amused  me; 
the  scenery  was  one  of  those  primitive  "scenic" 
settings  that  are  to  be  found  in  nearly  all 
photographers'  galleries  in  the  States. 

The  photographer  was  a  long  time  prepar- 
ing his  plates,  and  shut  himself  up  in  his  little 
dark  room  as  if  at  his  devotions.  I  was  placed 
in  front  of  the  group,  between  father  and 
mother.  A  forked  iron  rack  was  placed  at  the 
back  of  my  head  to  hold  me  still.  The  little 
bald-headed  photographer  seemed  to  enjoy 
diving  in  and  out  from  under  the  black  cloth. 

Finally  the  camera  artillery  was  read3\ 
The  photographer,  armed  with  a  rattle-box  to 
keep  Baby  Joe  quiet,  and  with  his  watch  in 
the  other  hand,  the  scorching  sun  pouring 
down  upon  the  scenic  effect  through  the  white 
screens,  took  my  first  picture.  My  hair  was 
combed  back  smoothly  and  held  by  an  arched 
comb  and  tied  with  a  blue  ribbon.  How  clearly 
it  all  comes  back  to  me  now,  as  I  look  with 
misty  eyes  upon  that  old,  faded  tintype! 

After  the  picture  had  been  taken  I  was 
carried  over  to  the  little  rickety,  red  office  of 
Dr.   Waddington.     A  tall   be-spectacled   man 


1^  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

wearing  an  apron  was  with  him.  He  had  a 
large  number  of  small,  bright  knives,  saws 
and  sharp  instruments  spread  out  on  the 
window-sill.  There  was  a  long  narrow  table 
in  the  center  of  the  room.  With  the  silent 
motion  of  an  executioner,  the  strange  man 
pointed  to  the  table,  and  mother  began  to  cry. 
Babv  Joe  joined  in  and  father's  eves  filled. 
He  set  me  down  gently.  They  all  kissed  me, 
including  the  stout  old  doctor,  wheezing  badly 
as  his  eyes  glistened.  I  still  felt  mother's 
arms  about  me,  and  I  was  not  afraid.  It  seemed 
a  good  deal  of  fuss  to  make  over  a  little  red- 
headed girl.  A  few  minutes  later  I  was  un- 
conscious. The  test  of  life  and  death  was 
being  made,  for  the  operation  was  to  remove 
a  dangerous  growth  in  my  throat — the  throat 
and  voice  which  have  since  won  me  fame  and 
fortune.  I  have  often  thought  how  strange 
it  was  that  I  had  no  fear  or  apprehension, 
and  that  the  real  suffering  was  endured  by 
those  who  loved  me  and  watched  my  insensible 
form. 


^4 


A  general  merchandise  store,  to  ivhich  the  farmers  came  every  Satur- 
day from  miles  around  to  obtain  needed  supplies  in  exchange  for 

butter  and  eggs 


CHAPTER   III 
Crushed  by  a  Panic 

THE  operation  was  successful.  My  throat 
troubles  disappeared,  and  at  six  years 
of  age  I  was  able  not  only  to  talk  plainly, 
but  even  to  sing  as  well,  for  mother's  love  of 
music  could  not  endure  that  "her  biggest 
girl"  should  grow  up  without  being  skilled  in 
music  and  song.  What  happiness  it  brought. 
Father  seemed  more  fond  of  me  than  ever,  and 
he  was  never  weary  of  fondling  his  "golden- 
haired  Minza,"  whom  the  unregenerate  neigh- 
bor's boys  chose  to  irritate  by  calling  her 
"little  red-headed  Meg." 

Father  was  a  country  merchant  and  kept  a 
general  merchandise  store,  to  which  the  farmers 
came  every  Saturday  from  miles  around  to 
obtain  needed  supplies  in  exchange  for  their 
butter  and  eggs  and  other  produce.  How  well 
I  remember  that  dear  old  place!  The  very 
odors  of  molasses,  coffee  and  kerosene  in  such 
stores   are   today   fragrant   with   memories   of 

14 


THE   MINOR   CHORD  15 

childhood.  Every  factory  or  shop  has  its 
peculiar  atmosphere,  characteristic  only  of 
its  particular  branch  of  trade;  but  the  old 
"store,"  as  we  called  it,  seemed  to  be  a  com- 
posite of  everything. 

As  it  was  the  largest  "store"  in  the  village, 
father  and  mother  were  considered  the  social 
and  business  leaders  of  the  community.  Our 
piano  was  a  Steinway,  the  only  one  in  the 
hamlet,  and  mother's  playing  and  singing  were 
noted  far  and  near;  indeed,  she  would  often  en- 
tertain the  neighbors  of  an  evening,  for  it  was 
an  important  part  of  her  religion  to  make  others 
happy. 

It  was  in  those  days  that  mother  first  began 
to  instruct  me  in  music.  I  loved  it,  and  music 
was  a  part  of  my  mother's  very  life.  How  well 
I  remember  awaking  every  morning  as  mother 
played  Clayton's  "Grand  March"  or  Schu- 
mann's "Jolly  Farmer"  on  the  piano!  Father 
rarely  left  home  in  the  morning  until  mother 
had  played  them.  He  was  not  a  musician,  but 
loved  music  even  more  passionately  than  do 
some  who  are  brilliant  performers. 

These  were  happy  days;    and  as  father  used 


16  THE   MINOR  CHORD 

to  sit  and  smoke  liis  pipe,  with  one  baby  on 
each  knee  and  little  red-headed  Meg  cosily 
stowed  awaj^  between,  listening  to  the  music 
he  loved  so  well,  ho  looked  the  picture  of  family 
content.  It  was  a  happy  family  picture,  but 
it  is  during  the  pleasant  summer  days  of  life 
that  the  storm  of  adversity  often  brings  sudden 
ruin. 

The  United  States  is  a  country  of  climaxes. 
With  immense  new  territory  it  develops  more 
rapidly  than  its  financial  resources;  conse- 
quently, its  history  is  well  punctuated  with 
panics.  It  was  during  one  of  these  panics 
that  father  failed  in  business;  not  through 
any  fault  of  his  own,  but  he  had  endorsed  a 
note  for  a  friend,  who  could  not  pay  it,  and 
father  was  compelled  to  stand  the  loss.  Com- 
ing at  a  time  when  he  had  a  large  number  of 
accounts  outstanding  and  securities  upon  which 
he  could  not  realize,  father  turned  over  to 
insistent  creditors  all  his  property,  worth 
many  times  his  liabilities,  for  them  to  prey 
upon  and  divide  among  them. 

Never  can  I  forget  that  night  in  June  when 
he  came  home  to  tea,  but  could  not  eat.    With 


THE   MINOR   CHORD  17 

a  deep,  yearning  gaze  he  looked  across  the  table 
at  mother,  and  burst  into  tears. 

"Helen,  I'm  ruined!"  he  cried. 

"How  is  that,  Robert.^"  said  mother  (luietly, 
going  to  him  and  placing  her  arms  about  his 
neck.  This  was  her  favorite  way  of  asking 
questions.  He  told  her  the  story  in  detail  as 
simply  as  a  little  child. 

"Still,  it  may  not  be  so  bad,  after  all,  Robert. 
I  will  go  down  to  the  store  with  you  after 
tea,  and  we  will  see." 

Mother  knew  nothing  of  business  matters, 
but  was  always  firm  in  all  emergencies.  There 
was  no  further  eating,  and  we  went  to  the 
store.  It  was  after  closing  hours,  and  the 
curtains  had  been  drawn.  Father's  name  blazed 
in  large  gilt  letters  seemed  now  like  a  mockery. 

Once  inside,  we  went  to  the  high  sloping 
desk,  and  there  mother  seemed  to  throw  off 
her  gentle,  caressing  tenderness,  and  to  become 
the  counsellor,  champion  and  defender  of  her 
loved  ones.  The  little,  shrinking,  timid  woman 
seemed  to  become  the  guardian  of  the  family. 
As  I  learned  long  afterward,  father  should 
have  made   an   assignment  to  someone  whom 


"Well,  Robert,  it  is  cruel,  it  w  wrong,  but  they  will  take  the  property" 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  19 

he  could  trust  for  the  benefit  of  all  his  credi- 
tors as  soon  as  he  was  satisfied  that  he  could 
not  pay  them  all. 

"Robert,"  said  mother  after  a  long  silence, 
"it  is  cruel,  it  is  wrong;  thej^  will  take  the 
property,  but  we  can  save  our  home;  that  is 
exempt." 

"But,  Helen,  is  that  honest  when — when — " 

"Robert,  your  first  duty  is  to  yourself  and 
family;  you  must  not  assume  that  all  men 
are  as  honest  as  you.  Robert,  I  say  we  will 
refuse  to  give  up  our  home." 

There  was  a  queenly  firmness  in  her  tone  and 
attitude;  the  light  and  fire  in  her  eye  was 
that  of  an  aroused  tigress  defending  her  young. 

So  the  home  was  saved  by  mother,  but  the 
lawyers  soon  made  sad  havoc  of  the  property. 
The  "assignee's  sale"  only  realized,  or  rather 
was  reported  to  have  realized,  a  small  fraction 
of  its  real  value,  and  left  father  still  a  thousand 
dollars  in  debt. 

"One  thousand  dollars!"  I  dreamed  of  them 
night  after  night.  What  an  enormous  sum  it 
seemed!  My  poor  father!  His  face  grew  thin 
and    he   began   to   stoop,    and   I   would   have 


20  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

given  my  life  to  have  secured  that  one  thousand 
dolhirs.  Could  I  sew?  Could  I  grow  big  and 
go  out  teaching?  But  how  long  it  would  take 
to  save  one  thousand  dollars  to  lift  the  pall 
that  hung  over  our  household!  I  wished  that 
I  were  a  big  girl  and  could  marry  a  rich  man. 

But  something  must  be  done.  Father,  a 
few  days  ago  the  prosperous  village  merchant, 
had  now  but  few  friends  who  would  help  him. 

He  tried  to  find  work  as  a  carpenter — the 
trade  he  had  learned  in  England;  but  no  one 
would  build  houses  during  a  financial  panic, 
and  finally,  with  a  saw-buck  on  his  shoulder, 
he  went  out  to  saw  a  neighbor's  woodpile  to 
buy  flour  for  his  family. 

That  cord  of  wood  nearly  cost  father  his 
life.  It  was  a  cold,  rainy  day,  and  as  he  worked 
in  his  shirtsleeves,  and  was  not  accustomed 
to  manual  labor,  he  caught  a  heavy  cold.  I 
had  been  with  him  to  help  pile  up  the  wood  as 
he  sawed  it.  We  had  retreated  behind  a  hay- 
stack from  public  view,  for  there  was  just  a 
bit  of  pride  left.  How  I  hated  everyone  then! 
I  believe  I  was  an  anarchist  in  spirit. 

That  night  we  sat  alone  without  a  light. 


THE   MINOR   CHORD  21 

"Helen,  what  can  we  do,  what  can  we  do?" 
said  father,  with  that  beseecliing  look  which 
expressed  so  much.  His  cough  was  growing 
worse. 

"Something  will  come  to  us,  Robert,"  re- 
plied mother.  "Never  mind,  we  shall  live 
somehow.    Be  patient,  Robert,  be  patient." 

As  is  often  the  case,  calamity  had  reversed 
the  position  of  the  two.  Mother  was  now 
commander   of   the   storm-beaten   home   craft. 

She  went  to  the  piano  and  played  softly; — 
impromptu  chords  as  she  used  to  play  them  on 
the  little  wheezy  church  organ,  then  "The 
Maiden's  Prayer."  Afterwards  she  started  to 
sing  the  old  melody,  "When  You  and  I  Were 
Young."  How  sweet  and  soothing  it  was! 
No  voice  have  I  ever  heard  like  mother's.  In 
the  middle  of  the  third  verse  she  stopped  short. 

"I  declare  I've  forgotten  the  words,  Robert." 

She  lighted  a  lamp  to  search  among  the  pile 
of  music  on  the  top  of  the  piano,  and  while 
doing  so  she  found  a  worn  piece  of  sheet  music. 
It  was  Mendelssohn's  "Wedding  March,"  and 
she  started. 

"Robert,  we're  all  right!" 


22  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

The  sight  of  that  piece  of  music  had  brought 
to  mind  her  wedding,  and  a  wedding  present. 

"Robert,  I  have  property." 

"What  can  it  be?     You  never  told  me." 

"I  never  told  you,  my  dear,  but  my  father 
gave  me  a  deed  covering  some  wild  land 
in  the  western  part  of  the  state  as  a  wedding 
present.    I  have  the  deed  in  my  possession." 

"But  you   have  never  paid  the  taxes." 

"I  know — not  for  several  years,  and  the  land 
may  not  be  worth  much,  but  we  shall  see." 

She  sat  down  at  once  and  wrote  to  a  lawyer 
in  the  town  nearest  to  the  land.  We  all  studied 
the  map  in  my  little  school  geography,  but  it 
gave  us  little  idea  of  its  value  or  location. 

We  waited  anxiouslj^  for  a  reply.  The  lawyer 
gave  a  most  discouraging  report  of  the  land, 
saying  that  it  was  fifty  miles  from  a  railroad, 
and  that  it  had  been  sold  for  taxes;  to  redeem 
it  and  secure  a  clear  title  would  require  a  large 
amount  of  money.  The  panic  had  also  affected 
that  section  very  much,  but  possibly  he 
might  clear  three  hundred  dollars  if  power 
of  attorney  were  given  him  to  sell  at  once. 

A   family   consultation   was   held   over   our 


THE  MINOR   CHORD  23 

frugal  meal  that   night.     Winter  was  coming 
on.    Something  must  be  done,  and  quickly! 

Three  hundred  dollars!  That  was  a  large 
sum  of  money. 

"We  should  accept  it,  Robert,"  said  mother 
after  long  reflection. 

That  settled  it. 

"My  plan  is  to  re-invest  that  money  in  a 
music  and  book  shop  here  in  the  village,  and  I 
will  teach  music  in  order  to  sell  the  instru- 
ments.   That  is   what  we  must   do,  Robert." 

"My  dear  Helen,  with  your  babies  and  you 
so  delicate  in  health,  and — " 

"Never  mind,  dear,  we  shall  manage  some- 
how; you  and  Meg  can  attend  to  the  store 
and  the  household  work,  and  I  will  teach." 

My  mother's  wedding  present  was  sold. 
The  land  proved,  ten  years  after,  to  be  coal 
land  worth  nearly  half  a  million  dollars  when 
the  railroad  reached  it,  and  it  made  the  for- 
tunes of  several  men.  But  that  three  hundred 
dollars  invested  in  a  stock  of  violins,  guitars, 
strings,  trimmings,  sheet  music  and  books  was 
another  link  in  the  chain  of  events  which 
determined  my  career. 


CHAPTER   IV 

First  Impulse  of  a  Public  Career 

WE  were  soon  established  in  business. 
Our  music  and  book  shop  was  on  one 
side  of  the  room  occui)ied  by  the 
village  post-office.  Mother  organized  a  music 
class,  and,  although  the  income  was  small, 
through  the  commission  on  the  sale  of  an 
occasional  piano  or  a  violin  to  a  country  dance 
fiddler  and  "caller,"  we  managed  to  live. 

But  we  were  poor;  that  thousand  dollars 
still  remained  unpaid;  and  father's  creditors 
even  tried  to  seize  the  little  business  which 
gave  us  a  livelihood.  However,  mother  was 
too  shrewd  for  them.  She  had  established 
the  firm  with  herself  as  principal,  and  this  baf- 
fled the  creditors;  but  it  worried  poor  father 
as  being  dishonest,  and  his  health  began  to  fail. 
The  dumb  ague  fastened  its  grip  upon  him, 
and  every  other  day  he  had  a  "shake"  or  chill. 
While  mother  was  out  teaching  he  was  at  home 
doing  the  housework,  washing,  ironing,  cooking, 

24 


THE   MINOR   CHORD  25 

and  tending  Joe;  while  baby  Jimmy  was  with 
me  at  the  little  store,  sleeping  in  the  peram- 
bulator behind  the  counter.  It  was  confine- 
ment to  the  house  that  told  on  father.  Men 
were  not  made  for  housekeepers. 

When  music  and  selling  musical  instruments 
became  our  means  of  livelihood,  I  began  to 
hate  it.  Why  should  my  mother  have  to  earn 
her  living  that  way.^  Other  girls  did  not  need 
to  play  fiddles  and  amuse  country  bumpkins 
in  order  to  make  a  few  pennies.  Other  girls 
had  pretty  things  to  wear.  ]VIy  mother's  bon- 
nets and  dresses  were  made  over  for  me.  I 
grew  to  hate  music,  so  much  so  that  mother 
found  it  difficult  to  teach  me  the  rudiments. 
Oh,  the  long,  dreary  five-finger  exercises  and 
scales!  I  was  so  proud  when  she  permitted 
me  to  play  the  little  "'Bee  March."  That  seemed 
more  like  real  music.  She  looked  after  me 
carefully  and  would  not  allow  me  to  sing  in 
school,  even  though  I  pleaded;  but  with  a 
mother's  intuition  she  realized  how  important 
it  was  to  train  the  voice  from  childhood,  and 
today  I  do  not  believe  that  my  natural  voice 
was  originally  at  all  extraordinary.     Mother's 


26  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

care,  however,  gave  me  the  strength  to  endure 
the  severe  discipHne  of  after  years. 

For  some  years  mother  had  given  her  ser- 
vices as  organist  in  the  little  country  church, 
towards  the  construction  of  which  father  had 
contributed  one  thousand  dollars.  I  confess, 
as  I  sat  in  the  choir,  just  behind  the  dear  old 
minister,  Sunday  after  Sunday,  I  often  thought 
I  would  like  to  tear  out  that  thousand  dollars 
from  those  dingy  walls.  But  to  me  that  dear 
old  church  has  tender  recollections;  a  tall, 
slender  spire,  adorned  by  a  lightning  rod; 
green  blinds  about  the  square  cupola,  from 
which  the  rich  tones  of  the  bell  resounded; 
the  old  gray-haired  sexton,  who  permitted  me 
to  hold  the  rope  while  it  raised  me  toward  the 
roof;  the  small  class-room  just  off  the  main 
entrance;  on  the  other  side  the  stairs  to  the 
gallery,  where  we  children  used  to  play  when 
the  "mite  socials"  were  held.  The  cheerful 
savor  of  coffee,  of  oyster  stews  and  sand- 
wiches comes  back  to  me  now.  "*  The' interior 
was  painted  a  light  brown.  The  windows, 
in  imitation  of  old  Norman  arches,  had  eyebrow 
curves   of  a   deeper  brown   just   above.     The 


■Home,  home,  swecf,  surct  home" 


THE   MINOR   CHORD  27 

pews  were  plain,  and  the  old  and  deaf  people 

of    the    congregation    used    to    occupy    those 

in   front,    while   the    tittering   and    sniggering 

youngsters  clustered  in  the  rear.     It  was  on 

a  hot  Communion   Sunday  in  June  that  the 

first  link  in  my  musical  career  was  forged.    All 

strangers  were  exhorted  to  join  in  this  service. 

Father  and  mother  were  kneeling,  and  I  was 

left  at  the  organ  to  sing  a  verse  each  time, 

as  the  people  came  forward  and  knelt  about 

the  pulpit  platform. 

Alone  I  sang — 

"Just  as  I  am  without  one  plea. 
But  that  Thy  blood  was  shed  for  me, 
And  that  Thou  bid'st  me  come  to  Thee, 
O  Lamb  of  God,  I  come." 

When  I  saw  father  and  mother  kneeling  to- 
gether at  that  altar,  and  remembered  that 
they  had  never  attended  a  class  or  prayer 
meeting,  or  had  family  prayers  at  home,  it 
thrilled  me.  Up  to  this  time  I  had  refused  to 
kneel  at  the  mourner's  bench. 

The  last  "I  come"  was  fading  away,  and 
I  was  almost  unconscious  of  the  presence  of 
others.     I  opened  my  eyes  suddenly  and  saw 


28  THE   MINOR   CHORD 

two  blue  eyes  raised  above  the  altar  rail,  which 
met  mine.  I  started  and  gasped  aloud.  The 
minister  turned  about  quickly  and  looked  over 
his  spectacles;  the  service  stopped.  Mother 
and  father  started  toward  me,  thinking  I  was 
ill.  I  blushed  a  deep  red,  made  deeper  by  the 
sunshine  pouring  through  the  stained-glass 
windows.      I    had    made    a    scene    in    church. 

The  owner  of  the  blue  ej-es  was  a  stranger. 
He  was  evidently  a  commercial  traveler,  and 
was  staying  at  Francis'  Hotel.  I  was  only  a 
homely  little  red-headed  girl,  and  it  was  rather 
unusual  for  me  to  attract  an  admiring  glance. 

I  confess  I  fell  in  love,  for  those  blue  eyes 
fascinated  me.  Of  course  it  was  silly  in  a  girl 
of  tender  years,  but  there  was  a  certain  affinity 
in  that  glance  that  I  cannot  explain.  I  did 
not  become  acquainted  with  the  stranger  that 
day,  but  found  later  that  he  came  from  the 
great  city  of  Boston,  on  the  distant  Atlantic 
shore. 

The  church  music  of  the  period  was  rather 
peculiar.  Mother  loved  a  solemn,  rich  harmony 
that  expressed  reverence  and  adoration,  such 
as  is  used  in  the  English  church  service;   but 


THE   MINOR   CHORD  29 

in  every  church,  in  every  society,  religious  or 
civic,  whether  great  or  small,  there  is  sure  to 
be  a  quarrel  among  musical  rivals  at  one  time 
or  another. 

Mother's  taste  was  questioned  by  some  of 
the  ladies  whom  she  had  been  teaching.  The 
popular  gospel  hymns,  with  their  "arrange- 
ment" of  popular  vocal  and  dance  music,  had 
turned  their  heads. 

"They  be  so  truly  passionate,"  wailed  old 
spinster  Brown,  "and  express  real,  great  music," 
she  continued,  wringing  her  hands. 

It  was  a  tempest  in  a  teapot,  to  be  sure. 
IVIother  was  firm  and  would  tolerate  no  non- 
sense. The  kind  old  minister  sided  with  her, 
but  the  majority  of  the  congregation  followed 
Squire  Green,  tlie  leading  trustee,  who  had 
become  wealthy  by  foreclosing  mortgages  on 
poor  people,  and  whose  prayers  in  class  meeting 
reminded  me  of  an  angry  bull. 

To  me  the  Squire  was  a  hypocrite. 

The  final  result  was  that  mother  was  asked 
to  resign  her  thankless  task,  and  we  walked  out 
of  the  church  the  following  Sunday — banished 
from  the  church  my  father  had  helped  to  build; 


30  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

a  church  that  held  in  its  walls  enough  to 
relieve  him  from  debt;  a  church  to  which  he 
had  given  time  and  money  in  prosperity — but 
from  which  he  was  driven  out  in  adversity. 

In  spite  of  this  galling  incident,  I  thank 
heaven  I  have  never  lost  a  pure  and  simple 
faith  in  God. 

"Well,  the  kingdom  of  God  is  big  enough 
for  us  ai.,"  «5aid  mother,  as  we  sat  down  to 
dinner  that  day. 

For  a  time  after  the  crushing  affair  at  the 
church,  we  thought  of  leaving  the  to'WTi  alto- 
gether, but  mother  insisted: 

"No,  we  will  yet  see  the  turn  of  the  tide." 

It  did  not  take  long,  either. 

The  shop  business  was  poor,  though  mother's 
energy  had  made  her  successful  as  a  teacher; 
but  success  always  brings  its  penaltj'  in  the  way 
of  jealousy  and  envy.  It  was  thought  she  was 
using  her  position  as  organist  in  church  to  secure 
more  scholars;  but  they  drew  closer  to  her 
with  unswerving  loyalty,  and  the  class  kept  on 
increasing  until  she  was  threatened  with  nervous 
breakdown. 

Father  insisted  that  he  would  starve  rather 


THE  MINOR   CHORD  SI 

than  permit  her  to  continue  without  a  rest, 
and  a  family  consultation  was  held,  at  which 
he  suggested  a  concert  to  close  the  term — 
something  that  would  be  a  substitute  for  the 
Sunday-school  concerts  which  had  been  given 
at  the  church,  under  mother's  direction,  once 
every  month. 

The  new  organist  at  the  church  had  tried 
the  concerts  and  failed.  Then  mother  com- 
menced planning  for  the  recital.  It  was  very 
elaborate  in  conception,  considering  the  ma- 
terial with  which  she  had  to  deal,  and  from 
this  first  recital  I  drifted  into  a  stage  career. 

The  Town  Hall  was  generously  offered  to  her; 
a  temporary  stage  was  built,  and  bed  linen 
was  brought  into  requisition  for  curtains. 

How  I  dreaded  the  humiliation  of  that  first 
concert!  My  mother  and  father  in  the  show 
business!  It  stung  my  pride.  The  rehearsals 
proceeded,  and  mother  concentrated  every 
energy  upon  the  preparations.  She  under- 
stood human  nature,  which  was  indicated  im- 
pressively by  the  manner  in  which  she  assigned 
the  various  parts  to  those  best  fitted  to  fill 
them.     For  hours  and  hours  I  was  trained  to 


32  THE   MINOR   CHORD 

sing  Leonora's  arias  from  Verdi's  "Trovatore." 
I  was  locked  in  a  room  to  practice  the  violin, 
for  I  was  to  furnish  the  violin  solos  and  sur- 
prise the  public  with  the  unsuspected  ability 
and  taste  of  "little  Minza  Maxwell."  Oh, 
how  heartsick  I  w^as  as  the  date  approached! 
Could  it  not  be  postponed?  Could  I  hide? 
There  was  only  one  thing  that  held  me  close 
to  duty — the  stubborn  courage  and  hot,  en- 
during determination  that  doesn't  care  for 
odds  or  discouragements.  If  my  mother  was 
in  the  "show  business,"  and  if  my  father  did 
attend  to  the  babies  and  wash  dishes,  the 
Sundaj'-school  concert  should  be  outdone  by 
our  efforts. 

And  so  I  made  my  real  debut  in  an  amateur 
concert,  amid  the  taunts  of  old  pla^'mates  who 
lived  in  the  "terrace.'* 


h^ 


Miiiliff  nskt'd  t/t(   h>  In/  on  a  nctv  coat  tvitli  shinitnj  huitons 


CHAPTER  V 

First  Conquest  on  the  Stage 

IT  was  a  few  days  past  my  tenth  birthday 
when  the  recital  was  given  at  the  Town 
Hall.  Father  stood  at  the  door  taking 
the  money — the  straggling  silver  quarters — 
for  admission.  I  had  shrunk  out  of  sight  from 
some  of  my  schoolgirl  chums,  who,  I  was  afraid, 
would  jeer  at  me. 

There  was  not  a  very  large  attendance,  but 
Squire  Green's  family  and  the  Blixons  and  all 
our  enemies  in  the  church  quarrel  turned  out  in 
full  force.  I  fancied  I  saw  knives  and  daggers 
under  their  skirts.  My  ire  was  roused,  and  I 
would  not  fail  before  that  envious  audience. 

Cool  and  collected  behind  those  improvised 
curtains,  which  revealed  to  the  audience  panto- 
mimic silliouettes  of  the  performers,  stood 
mother.  Clad  in  a  simple  muslin  dress,  lowered 
just  a  trifle  at  the  neck,  with  flowers  at  her 
throat  and  in  her  hair,  it  seemed  to  me  that  I 
had  never  before  seen  her  look  so  beautiful. 

33 


S4  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

Her  dark  blue  eyes  were  flashing  with  excite- 
ment. Two  gawky  country  boys  stood  at  either 
side  of  the  center  curtains  to  draw  them  apart. 

There  was  a  moment  of  breathless  suspense 
just  before  mother  gave  the  signal.  Some 
young  lads,  who  were  admitted  free  as  ushers, 
were  stationed  in  different  parts  of  the  room. 
They  turned  down  the  lamps  at  a  signal.  The 
red  lights  were  turned  on  by  father,  and  then 
in  the  hushed  darkness,  with  a  cardboard  moon 
rising  slowly  over  a  scene  representing  an  old 
plantation,  the  soft  strains  of  "Suwanee  River" 
were  sung  without  instrumental  accompani- 
ment by  the  chorus  behind  the  scenery. 

The  effect  was  charming.  Mother's  clear, 
beautiful  voice  led  the  chorus  of  boys  and 
girls.  It  was  something  unexpected — and  that 
usually  pleases  an  American  audience. 

The  last  strains  of  Foster's  plaintive  melody 
had  scarcely  died  away  when,  promptly  at  the 
tap  of  the  bell,  two  of  mother's  advanced 
pupils  rendered  the  piano  duet  "Poet  and 
Peasant,"  while  mother  stood  over  them  to 
turn  the  music  and  count  the  time  in  a  soft 
undertone.     The  overture  to   "William   Tell" 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  35 

followed,  in  four  hands.  It  seems  to  me  that 
no  orchestration  ever  rendered  a  more  finished 
conception  than  those  simple  duets. 

My  heart  fluttered  when  the  accelerando  of 
the  last  measures  in  that  duet  were  reached 
and  the  crashing  chords  were  struck,  the  old 
Rossini  method  of  concluding  an  overture. 
I  was  next  on  the  program,  and  for  the  last 
time  gently  touched  the  strings  to  see  if  my 
violin  were  in  tune.  The  sea  of  faces  and  the 
light  before  me  was  confusing.  Not  a  feature 
did  I  recognize. 

"Keep  cool  and  go  slowly,"  whispered  mother, 
as  she  played  the  introduction  to  Mendelssohn's 
"Consolation." 

i\s  I  drew  the  bow  for  the  first  notes  my 
fingers  seemed  to  give  every  note  a  wavering 
sound.  After  the  first  full  down  bow,  I  felt 
the  influence  of  mother's  approval,  forgot  those 
in  front,  and  half  closed  my  eyes.  It  was  a 
simple  piece  and  I  was  at  my  best.  As  I  bowed 
and  walked  off  there  was  scarcely  a  ripple  of 
applause,  and  I  felt  crushed  as  I  walked  behind 
the  sheet  curtain.  Mother  rushed  in  and 
kissed   me  tenderly. 


36  THE   MINOR  CHORD 

"O  my  darling  little  Meg!  It  was  so  beauti- 
ful!" She  kissed  me  over  and  over  again,  and 
the  ])rogram  stopped  for  a  moment.  What  a 
light  heart  those  kisses  gave  me !  I  had  pleased 
mother,  and  it  was  she  for  whom  I  played. 

The  next  number  was  "The  Storm,"  which, 
with  its  vivid  mimicry  and  Alpine  song,  mother 
played  on  the  piano,  and  it  created  a  wild  out- 
burst of  applause.  It  was  just  the  thing  to 
suit  a  country  audience. 

"By  jinks,  I  thought  the  rain  war  a-comin' 
on  the  roof!"  whispered  a  lank  farmhand. 
Mother  had  captured  the  audience.  My  next 
piece  was  a  vocal  solo,  the  aria  "Ah!  I  Have 
Sighed  to  Rest  Me!"  from  "Trovatore."  Mother 
had  arranged  an  impromptu  orchestra.  The 
bald-headed  cornetist  and  countrv-dance  fiddler. 
Jack  Robins,  were  playing  their  parts  more  by 
ear  than  by  note.  The  bass  viol  made  several 
mistakes,  but  hastily  corrected  himself.  The 
aria  started  out  well.  I  felt  that  responsive 
approval  from  in  front,  but  in  the  second  part, 
in  the  tensest  passage,  the  confused  cornetist 
came  in  on  the  wrong  measure,  and  the  mis- 
take  quite   upset   the   entire   orchestra.      The 


THE   MINOR   CHORD  37 

clarinet  squeaked,  the  bass  drum  lost  his  place, 
and  it  ended  in  a  crash — a  break-down!  I 
caught  mother's  flashing  eye.  There  was  a 
titter  about  the  room.  Quickly  mother  mo- 
tioned the  orchestra  to  cease,  and  repeating 
on  the  piano  the  introduction  she  said  c(uielly: 

"Begin  over  again." 

I  did  so — only  mother  and  I.  The  failure 
nerved  me  with  stronger  power.  The  song 
was  finished,  and  the  applause  was  deafening, 
the  audience  appreciating  mother's  courage 
more  than  they  did  the  song.  We  were  encored 
several  times. 

Squire  Green  and  his  wife  arose  and  left 
just  then,  as  if  to  humiliate  father  at  the  door. 

The  concert  concluded  in  a  blaze  of  triumph 
with  the  "Hallelujah  Chorus"  from  Handel's 
"Messiah." 

After  the  program  parents  came  forward 
for  their  little  girls  who  had  taken  part  and 
mother  was  overwhelmed  with  congratulations. 
Mother  had  vanquished  her  rivals,-  and  the 
Sunday-school  concerts  were  laid  low. 

It  was  the  old  Squire  who  remarked  a  few 
days  afterwards: 


38  THE   MINOR   CHORD 

"Wal,  I  told  you  that  woman. was  a-leadin' 
our  church  into  theatrical  temptations.  See 
that  concert — a  disgrace,  sir!  Full  of  jig  songs 
and  operas  that  are  played  in  theaters.  No, 
sir,  keep  our  sanctuary  pure." 

"Robert,  I  am  proud  of  Meg,"  mother  said 
when  we  reached  home. 

"My  own  little  sunbeam!"  ejaculated  father, 
taking  me  on  his  knee. 

The  evening's  events  were  discussed  until 
past  midnight  in  the  dark  around  the  old 
"base-burner."  Even  after  we  retired,  I 
heard  mother  and  father  still  talking  it  over. 
Baby  Jim  snuggled  closer  to  me  in  bed.  It 
all  seemed  like  a  dream,  and  the  echoes  of  the 
music  rang  in  my  ears. 

"Fred  Burroughes  was  there  tonight,"  said 
father  softly.    I  had  not  seen  him. 

After  this  concert  the  reputation  of  mother 
as  a  music  teacher  was  established,  and  by 
the  home  newspaper  she  was  proclaimed  "the 
musical  leader  of  the  city." 


CHAPTER   VI 

The  Breaking  of  Home  Ties 

FATHER'S  health  did  not  improve,  and 
old  Dr.  Waddington  shook  his  head 
and  said  "Get  out  of  this  ague  district." 
This  required  money,  and  the  thousand-dollar 
debt  seemed  more  burdensome  than  ever. 
Mother  struggled  on  with  her  lessons. 

"One — two — three — four;  one  —  two  — three 
— four."  I  can  see  her  yet  in  the  old  parlor 
at  the  side  of  a  scholar,  going  through  her  daily 
program  of  drudgery. 

One  cool  October  day  at  noon  I  was  near 
the  old  brick  schoolhouse,  standing  under  the 
tall  Cottonwood  trees.  The  children  were  play- 
ing in  the  rustling  bed  of  fallen  leaves.  The 
air  was  laden  with  shouts  of  childish  merriment, 
with  now  and  then  an  unearthly  Indian  yell: 
children  without  noise  are  not  children.  It 
was  one  of  those  perfect  autumn  days  which 
live  in  memory  almost  as  vividly  as  the  events 
which  have  become  notable  in  our  lives. 

39 


40  THE   MINOR   CHORD 

From  across  the  road  came  a  form  I  knew 
well,  although  I  had  never  spoken  to  him. 

"This  is  Minza  Maxwell,  I  know,"  said  he 
warmly. 

"Yes,  sir,"  I  replied,  walking  apart  from  the 
others. 

"Well,  Minza,  I  want  you  to  become  a  great 
singer." 

It  was  rather  abrupt. 

"What  am  I  to  do.''"  I  asked,  hardly  daring 
to  look  up  into  his  face. 

"Your  father  is  going  to  Boston  with  me  on 
business,  and  will  be  gone  three  months.  You 
are  to  go  with  him  and  study  music." 

It  seems  that  it  had  all  been  arranged  at 
home,  and  was  no  news  to  them  when  I  arrived. 
Father  was  being  sent  away  for  his  health  by 
brothers  of  a  secret  fraternitv,  and  I  was  to 
look  after  him.  Mr.  Burroughes  had  also 
arranged  for  my  music  lessons  in  Boston. 

It  was  the  first  home-breaking  of  a  little 
family.  Like  Cinderella,  I  had  dreamed  of 
a  handsome,  princely  lover  to  pay  that  thousand 
dollar  debt.  My  first  hero  was  Fred  Burroughes. 
Although  I  was  but  a  child  while  he  was  a  grown 


THE  MINOR   CHORD  41 

man,  gratitude  filled  my  heart  with  the  deepest 
adoration  for  the  blue-eyed  commercial  trav- 
eler whom  I  had  first  seen  over  the  altar-rail 
at  communion  service  in  the  little  brown 
church. 

I  had  a  loving  girl  companion.  Angela 
Gooding  lived  across  the  road,  and  a  pretty 
little  thing  she  was.  True,  we  had  our  quarrels 
when  out  berrying  or  picking  up  hickory  nuts, 
or  playing  in  the  sandpile  under  the  old  maples, 
or  swinging  in  the  cherry  trees  near  the  old 
red  barn.  Nevertheless  we  were  devoted 
chums.  Our  secrets  were  mutual.  We  make 
our  truest  friends  in  childhood,  because  a  child 
makes  friends  from  disinterested  motives. 

The  night  before  I  was  to  leave  for  Boston, 
Angela  and  I  wandered  down  to  the  old  de- 
serted limekiln,  where  we  had  spent  so  many 
happy  days  together,  and  built  fairy  castles 
in  the  air.  I  said  good-bye  and  kissed  even 
the  large  flat  stones  where  we  used  to  sit  and 
study  the  stars,  or  watch  the  rays  of  the 
afternoon  sun  playing  through  the  leaves  of 
the  old  walnut  tree. 

We  cried  because  we  thought  that  perhaps 


42  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

we  should  never  be  together  again.  We  plighted 
our  eternal  friendship  with  rings  made  of 
withered  blades  of  grass.  The  hidden  hemp 
fish-poles  w^ere  brought  out  and  put  away  again, 
and  over  the  wire  fence  Farmer  Brown's  muley 
cow  "Spotty"  looked  pensively,  as  if  she,  too, 
wanted  a  good-bye  kiss. 

In  the  house  I  threw  off  my  jacket  and  cried 
as  mother  asked  me  to  try  on  a  new  coat  with 
shining  buttons.  In  our  need  mother  had 
made  my  jackets  out  of  father's  faded  and  worn- 
out  coats,  and  dyed  them  in  logwood.  The 
black  persisted  in  wearing  off  on  my  neck, 
and  the  boys  used  to  plague  me  with  cries  of 
"Charcoal  Meg."  How  I  despised  that  name! 
But  Angela  never  teased. 

"Mamma,  let  me  stay,  and  you  go  with 
papa,"  I  remember  pleading. 

"No,  a  little  girl  of  ten  could  hardly  do  my 
work,"  softly  said  mamma.  "You  go  with 
papa  and  study  hard,  and  then  you  will  be 
a  great  singer  some  day  and  not  have  to  endure 
poverty.     Be  brave,  Minza!" 

She  kissed  me  again.  She  was  not  an  effusive 
mother;     her    kisses    were    few,    but    alw^ays 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  43 

appropriate.  She  did  not  humor  me  by  waiting 
on  my  every  wish  or  tucking  me  in  bed,  with 
the  other  usual  incidents  of  expressing  a 
mother's  love,  but  taught  me  self-reliance  and 
inspired  me  with  an  ambition  that  I  could  not 
stifle. 

The  next  day  was  a  busy  one — what  with 
packing  the  trunks  and  many  farewells.  The 
train  left  at  midnight.  We  tried  to  spend  a 
cheerful  evening,  and  Angela  was  allowed  to 
stay  up  with  me.  The  hour  of  twelve  seemed 
to  come  too  quickly.  The  'bus  rattled  to  the 
door  with  its  dingy  light  in  front.  Once  more 
I  broke  out,  "I  will  not  go.  Mamma — mamma, 
I  cannot  leave  you  and  the  babies." 

"Come,  Minza,  dear,  mamma  will  be  all 
right.  That's  a  good  girl,  take  care  of  papa 
and  be  brave,  Minza,  be  brave  and  work  hard." 
She  kissed  me  good-bye  as  only  a  mother  can. 
Father  hugged  me  close  to  him.  We  were  off 
to  Boston.     It  seemed  like  an  exile  to  Siberia. 


CHAPTER  VII 

On  to  Boston 

OUR  journey  was  before  the  advent  of 
through  train  service  such  as  we  have  in 
these  days.  One  had  to  change  roads 
often,  cars  oftener,  with  endlessly  long  waits 
for  connections.  At  one  junction  I  read  all 
the  placards  several  times  sideways  and  upside 
down. 

When  we  reached  Chicago  all  was  bustle.  The 
trip  already  seemed  to  put  new  life  into  father. 
An  ague  chill  was  due  that  day,  but  it  did  not 
come,  and  never  another  pill  was  taken. 

The  cable  cars,  gliding  along  without  any 
horses  or  engines,  were  the  first  things  to  attract 
my  attention.  The  waters  of  Lake  IMichigan 
were  dancing  in  the  morning  sunlight.  The 
tall  factory  chimneys  and  business  blocks  were 
to  me  awe-inspiring,  and  the  trains  darting 
along  the  lake  front,  with  their  wide-funnel 
smoke  stacks,  seemed  like  busy  messengers 
from  another  world. 

44 


THE  MINOR   CHORD  45 

On  to  Boston  we  journeyed.  We  could  not 
afford  sleeping  cars,  and  father  arranged  a 
bed  for  me  on  the  seats,  but  did  not  sleep 
himself.  The  nearer  we  approached  to  Boston, 
the  straighter  the  people  sat  in  their  seats; 
and  the  beautiful  suburban  highw^ays  and 
streets  gave  us  glimpses  of  neatly-kept  cottages, 
stately  mansions  and  stone-walled  lawns  and 
orchards. 

The  picturesque,  crooked  streets  of  Boston 
had  for  us,  as  for  all  Americans,  a  peculiar 
fascination.  They  are  among  the  few  evi- 
dences left  of  the  early  European  settlement 
of  America.  The  historic  old  Boston  common, 
with  its  towering  elms,  brought  before  me  visions 
of  the  Revolutionary  War,  which  I  had  studied 
in  my  school  history. 

We  crossed  the  Charles  River  Bridge  to 
Cambridge,  passed  the  old  Washington  elm 
and  Longfellow's  beautiful  home,  buried  in 
the  trees,  and  stopped  at  a  low,  narrow  gray 
house  with  a  green  door  and  an  enormous  brass 
knocker,  which  was  to  me  quite  an  object  of 
curiosity. 

A  tall,  kindly-looking  lady  with  a  long  face, 


46  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

which  to  inv  childish  fancv  recalled  our  old 
horse  at  home,  came  to  the  door. 

"Miss  Paxton,  I  believe?"  said  my  father. 

"Yes,  sir,  and  this  is  Mr.  Maxwell?  And  is 
this  INIinza?     Come  here,  my  dear." 

She  was  a  prim  maiden  lady  and  was  kind 
to  me,  yet  she  was  not  my  mother.  Only  a 
mother  can  win  a  child  at  once. 

"So  this  is  Helen's  only  daughter,"  she  said, 
untying  the  strings  of  my  hood,  "and  she — " 

"Oh,  vou  know  mamma!"  I  broke  in.  Even 
an  association  of  acquaintance  inspires  confi- 
dence, and  I  came  closer  to  her. 

"Yes,  my  dear,  I  knew  your  mamma  when 
she  was  a  little  girl  like  you." 

"It  was  hard  for  Helen  to  part  with  her," 
said  father,  "but  she  has  great  hopes  for 
Minza." 

"Of  course,"  said  Miss  Paxton  heartily. 

"And  now,"  said  father,  "I  must  be  going. 
Minza,  be  a  good  girl  and  mind  Miss  Paxton. 
Good-bve,  dear." 

He  kissed  me  tenderly,  and  I  broke  out  in 
rebellion.  "I  will  not  stay!  Mamma  said  I 
was  to  go  with  you." 


THE   MINOR   CHORD  47 

"But  I  shall  come  back,  dear." 

Again  I  had  a  good  cry;  it  seemed  as  if  all 
the  world  were  against  me.  An  exile  from 
home— alone  with  strangers!  For  the  first 
few  days  I  was  very  lonely  indeed.  I  made  up 
my  mind,  however,  to  be  brave  and  diligent, 
and  the  hope  of  doing  something  to  help  my 
dear  father  strengthened  and  comforted  me. 

A  few  days  later,  I  began  my  lessons.  Pro- 
fessor Windemere  was  a  big,  benign  man  with 
long  whiskers.  I  soon  learned  to  admire  him, 
although  he  never  considered  me  a  promising 
pupil.  He  was  a  prudent  teacher,  and  con- 
ducted my  vocal  exercises  with  unwearied  care. 
How  tiresome  and  dreary  it  was,  going  up  and 
down  those  scales.  Often  I  would  stop  my 
practicing  and  cry  as  I  thought  of  mother  and 
the  babies  at  home!  I  even  envied  the  little 
girls  in  the  streets  selling  papers  and  matches! 
They  were  free,  with  no  scales  to  practice. 
I  was  not  permitted  to  sing  tunes,  although 
my  heart  was  hungry  for  melody.  Miss  Pax- 
ton's  keen  but  kind  eye  seemed  upon  me  night 
and  day.  As  the  days  wore  on  I  became  more 
reconciled,  but  my  thoughts  were  always  away 


48  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

in  that  little  Western  town.  We  feel  more  at 
home  as  we  become  acquainted  with  the  land- 
scape, and  when  the  old  street-car  conductor 
with  spectacles  called  me  by  my  Christian 
name  one  day,  I  felt  that  I  knew  nearly  every- 
one in  Boston.  Then  I  began  to  take  an  interest 
in  the  people,  for  Miss  Paxton  took  me  to  church 
and  to  Sabbath  school,  where  I  met  some  nice 
girls,  who  dwelt  near  Miss  Paxton.  They 
came  for  me  to  accompany  them  to  the  coasting 
hills  and  skating  ponds  in  the  winter,  and  my 
Western  life  had  at  least  made  me  a  fearless 
and  expert,  if  not  a  graceful,  coaster  and  skater. 
This  made  me  a  leader  in  matters  requiring 
nerve  and  self-assertion,  and  more  than  one 
rude  boy  was  glad  to  cease  from  annoying  any 
member  of  "that  Minza  Maxwell  gang"  after 
his  first  encounter  with  its  leader.  On  the  other 
hand  my  new  friends  taught  me  how  to  do  more 
gracefully  the  things  that  I  had  already'  learned 
to  do  well,  and  gave  me  little  dainty  articles 
of  wear  and  use  that  did  much  to  instil  a  greater 
love  of  the  artistic. 

My  great  friend  was  Mary  Howe,  a  mother- 
less girl  some  two  or  three  years  older  than 


THE   MINOR  CHORD  49 

myself,  born  in  Cambridge  and  living  in  the 
family  of  an  elder  brother.  She  was  very  fond 
of  reading  and  especially  fascinated  with  stories 
of  Colonial  and  Revolutionary  days.  Our 
friendship  was  greatly  accentuated  by  a  little 
adventure  just  a  day  or  two  before  Christmas. 

"See  what  my  dear  father  sent  me  from 
Milwaukee,"  she  said  as  she  finished  putting 
on  her  skates  and  watched  me  buckle  the  last 
strap  of  my  own,  "isn't  it  a  beauty.^"  And 
she  held  up  a  pretty  little  silver  chain  purse, 
through  which  I  caught  a  gleam  of  gold. 

An  evil-faced,  undersized  man  swept  by, 
snatched  the  pretty  purse  and  dashed  away 
for  the  opposite  shore. 

"Pickpocket!  Stop  thief!"  yelled  several 
boys  and  girls,  and  as  the  cry  spread  up  the 
shore  a  mob  of  men,  girls  and  boys  in  a  semi- 
circular ring  swept  down  after  the  fugitive. 

I  sprang  to  my  feet  and  dashed  off  in  hot 
pursuit,  trending  a  little  to  the  right  of  the 
thief,  who  I  saw  intended  to  land  at  a  point 
where  he  could  easily  hide  himself  among  trees 
and  buildings.  I  was  a  little  the  swifter  skater 
and  my  course  was  shorter  than  his,  but  the 


50  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

day  before  a  weak  place  in  the  ice  had  been 
marked  "Dangerous"  by  the  police. 

The  thief  laughed  as  he  saw  me  gain  upon 
him,  but  kept  his  face  shadowed  by  his  cloth 
cap  and  one  hand.  "You're  crazy,"  he  cried. 
"Go  home,  cry-baby,"  for  between  anger  and 
sorrow  for  poor  Mary  the  tears  were  running 
down  my  face.  I  struck  out  faster  and  a 
moment  later  was  crossing  near  the  black  water 
of  the  spring  hole.  The  thin,  tough  ice  bent 
and  buckled,  the  still  water  broke  into  glancing 
ripples,  but  the  ice  held  and  I  was  close  at  the 
man's  heels  as  he  was  making  his  last  stroke 
toward  the  snow-covered  shore.  I  gathered 
mj'self  for  one  desperate  leap,  as  I  had  often 
done  in  trying  to  make  "the  longest  jump" 
on  the  old  mill  pond,  and  landed  on  the  back  of 
the  fugitive. 

He  went  down  with  a  sprawl,  a  thud,  and  an 
explosive  groan  that  seemed  to  drive  every 
breath  of  air  from  his  body,  and  I  rolled  quickly 
to  one  side,  snatching  the  precious  purse,  which 
he  had  carried  all  the  time  in  his  right  hand 
or  concealed  in  his  sleeve. 

I  started  up,  but  there  was  no  need  of  haste, 


THE   MINOR  CHORD  51 

for  the  thief  was  dazed  and  breathless,  and  the 
crowd,  led  by  a  great,  fair-haired  giant,  had 
reached  the  spot. 

"Are  you  all  right,  little  one?"  he  said,  as 
he  picked  me  up  as  if  I  were  a  baby,  wiping 
the  tears  and  a  little  grit  and  blood  from  my 
face,  for  I  had  been  just  a  little  hurt  by  the  fall. 
"There,  you're  all  right,  and  the  bravest  little 
girl  I  ever  saw.  Here's  your  chum,  crying,  too, 
like  you — after  leading  us  all  after  'Slimmie' 
here,  who  will  have  plenty  of  time  to  rest  up 
before  he  goes  skating  again." 

Then  he  took  our  names  and  addresses,  and 
said  we  would  be  summoned  as  witnesses  soon. 
"Slimmie"  was  carted  off  in  a  black-covered 
wagon,  and  I  was  praised  and  crowded  about 
until  INIary  and  I  were  glad  to  leave  the  skaters 
and  go  home. 

A  few  days  later  we  were  called  into  court 
and  told  our  story  of  the  theft,  and  the  judge 
gave  "Slimmie"  a  long  sentence,  although  he 
had  counsel,  and  evidently  was  backed  up  by 
staunch  comrades.  As  he  was  led  by  us  after 
being  sentenced,  he  gazed  at  me  with  a  cold 
and  evil  gleam  in  his  eyes  that  made  me  think 


52  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

of  a  rattlesnake  whose  deadly  fangs  I  had 
barely  escaped  back  in  Iowa.  "I  shall  remem- 
ber Minza  Maxwell,"  he  said  under  his  breath. 
It  was  more  like  a  hiss  than  a  whisper,  sibi- 
lant, threatening,  merciless,  and  I  drew  back 
shuddering. 

"Don't  mind  him,  girlie,"  said  an  old  man 
behind  me.  "He's  dangerous  and  treacherous 
enough,  but  I'll  fix  the  gang  for  you,"  and  the 
detective,  for  it  was  he,  followed  the  prisoner's 
lawyer  out  into  the  corridor.  When  we  came 
out  a  few  moments  later  the  lawyer  himself 
raised  his  hat  and  said: 

"None  of  'Slimmie's'  pals  will  hurt  you, 
Miss  Maxwell,  for  your  very  brave  and  spirited 
act,  nor  will  'Slimmie'  have  any  countenance 
hereafter  unless  he  pledges  himself  'to  take  his 
medicine  like  a  man,'  as  they  say.  Good-day 
and  good  luck  to  you." 

Of  course  the  papers  told  the  story,  and  the 
copies  I  sent  home  raised  quite  a  furore  in 
Smithville.  Mary's  friends  never  tired  of  in- 
viting me  to  tea  and  little  amusements,  and 
Mary  and  I  were  inseparable  A  little  after 
New  Year's  she  came  down  to  Miss  Paxton's 


THE   MINOR   CHORD  53 

one  night  strangely  jubilant,  and  almost  dancing 
and  singing.  Could  this  be  my  loving  but 
somewhat  staid  Mary? 

"Don't  look  so  astonished,  puss,"  she  cried 
merrily,  "see  what  father  has  sent  you  for  a 
New  Year's  gift."  I  opened  the  dainty  carton; 
it  held  another  purse  just  like  Mary's,  and  in 
it  were  two  bright  gold  half  eagles.  "See 
what  is  on  the  clasp,"  she  cried,  and  in  delicate 
script  I  read  my  own  initials  and  after  them 
"To  a  Brave  Girl.    Always  be  Brave." 

"It's  very  pretty  and  well  deserved,  my  dear," 
said  prim  Miss  Paxton  as  she  took  charge  of 
the  gift  and  we  turned  to  go  "over  to  Mary's." 
"But  don't  forget  the  motto  and  be  brave  all 
your  life,  like  your  dear  mother."  I  mentally 
determined  to  follow  her  counsel. 

That  winter  I  was  at  times  very  homesick, 
but  still  had  many  pleasures.  With  Mary  I 
visited  the  great  museums  and  libraries  of 
Cambridge  and  Boston,  heard  some  notable 
preachers  and  orators  address  gatherings  in 
which  children  took  a  leading  part,  and  indeed 
had  all  the  relaxation  consistent  with  close 
studj'    of    my    music    curriculum.      My    voice 


54  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

grew  fuller  and  my  notes  better  sustained; 
and  father  had  for  some  time  been  at  home 
and  much  improved  in  health. 

As  the  spring  advanced  we  found  new 
pleasures,  in  which  even  Miss  Paxton  some- 
times joined.  She  took  us  on  April  19  to 
Lexington  Green,  where  Captain  Parker's  mili- 
tia company  met  "according  to  law"  to  muster 
and  drill  and  were  fired  upon  by  Major  Pitcairn's 
British  infantry,  killing  and  wounding  many. 
Miss  Paxton  was  descended  from  common 
ancestors  of  some  of  the  victims,  and  showed 
us  the  house  to  which  Jonathan  Harrington 
dragged  himself  when  dying,  under  the  eyes 
of  his  broken-hearted  familv.  Then  we  went 
on  to  Concord,  and  saw  the  relics  in  the  mu- 
seum there;  the  North  Bridge,  where  first  the 
British  invader  fell  back  before  the  fire  of  the 
Massachusetts  riflemen;  the  Old  Manse,  where 
Hawthorne  lived  and  wrote;  and  the  ancient 
gravej^ards,  where  many  a  veteran,  patriot 
and  scholar,  with  Emerson,  Alcott,  Thoreau, 
and  other  great  Americans,  lie  buried.  Then 
we  took  tea  in  the  little  tavern  where  on  the 
day   of  the   "Concord  fight"   Colonel  Barrett 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  55 

held  his  httle  council  of  war  in  the  gray  morn- 
ing and  Colonel  Smith  and  Major  Pitcairn 
drank  their  toddy  and  gave  orders  for  the 
pillage  of  the  American  munitions  and  later 
for  a  hasty  retreat. 

On  the  way  back  Miss  Paxton  showed  us 
where  the  Americans  ambushed  and  fired  upon 
the  retreating  British;  where  Pitcairn's  men, 
out  of  breath  and  fearful,  rested  when  Lord 
Percy's  infantry  and  cannon  opened  on  the 
gathering  clouds  of  sharpshooters;  and  where, 
despairing  of  reaching  Boston  by  land,  over 
Boston  Neck,  where  Dover  Street  now  is,  the 
English  turned  off  on  the  Charlestown  road, 
glad  to  cross  the  narrow  causeway  and  turn  at 
bay  at  its  head. 

Then  we  visited  Charlestown  on  the  seven- 
teenth of  June  and  climbed  the  narrow-circled 
stone  steps  of  Bunker  Hill  monument  to  look  out 
over  the  Navj^  Yard,  where  General  Howe  mar- 
shalled his  battalion,  the  narrow  river  where 
Admiral  Groves'  w  arships  bombarded  Prescott's 
little  redoubt,  and  Copp's  Hill  burying  ground, 
whence  General  Gage  viewed  the  defeated 
carnage  and  retreat  of  his  veterans.     Now  the 


56  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

homes  of  over  a  million  people,  with  their 
factories  and  mills,  lay  in  a  great  circle  around 
us,  pierced  yet  united  by  hundreds  of  steam 
and  trolley  car  tracks,  while  to  seaward  stretched 
the  haven,  dotted  with  islands  and  alive  with 
steamships,  yachts  and  sailing  vessels,  and 
beyond  the  outer  forts  and  isolated  lighthouses 
and  beacons  the  broad  Atlantic,  the  boundless 
sea. 

It  was  not  a  favorable  day  in  which  to  visit 
the  monument,  for  the  whole  enclosure  was 
thronged  with  sightseers,  and  we  had  to  make 
way  for  others,  but  that  view  of  the  theater 
of  one  of  the  most  important  battles  of  the 
Revolution  and  of  Greater  Boston  and  its 
surroundings  I  have  never  forgotten. 

I  enjoyed  one  of  those  vivid  dreams  of  the 
imagination  peculiar  to  the  verging  of  youth 
upon  manhood  and  womanhood,  which  I  am 
convinced  are  far  more  spirituelle,  enthralling 
and  illuminant  than  any  that  most  of  us  enjoy 
in  after  life.  Certainly  Mary  Howe  rallied  me 
on  my  absent-mindedness,  and  Miss  Paxton 
was  worried  lest  I  should  make  a  false  step  in 
our  descent  to  the  street. 


THE   MINOR   CHORD  57 

The  summer,  too,  had  its  pleasures.  One 
of  the  most  vivid  in  my  recollection  was  the 
great  display  of  fireworks  on  the  evening  of 
Independence  Day;  and  another  glorious  day 
was  spent  in  a  trip  by  steamer  to  Nahant; 
and  yet  so  strong  were  my  home  ties  that  I 
could  never  wholly  overcome  my  homesickness. 
But  my  banishment  was  suddenly  ended, 
and  one  morning  about  a  year  after  my  coming 
to  Boston,  I  came  down  to  breakfast  and  found 
Miss  Paxton  crying.  A  canary  in  the  bay  win- 
dow was  singing  gaily  in  the  morning  sunlight, 
as  if  trying  to  dispel  her  grief. 

On  the  table  was  that  yellow  envelope  which 
to  quiet  folk  augurs  ill.  In  it  was  a  telegram. 
"My  dear,  you  will  have  to  go  home— today." 
"What's  the  matter?  Is  mamma — " 
"No,  no,  my  child,  but  your  mother  wants 
you  at  home." 
"My  papa—" 

"He  has  gone  home,  and  is  much  better." 

This  did  not  dispel  my  forebodings.    At  noon 

Fred  Burroughes  arrived,  and  I  returned  with 

him.     My  mind  was  so  absorbed  with  fears  of 

something  wrong  that  I  quite  forgot  my  com- 


58  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

panion;  indeed,  I  remember  very  little  of  the 
return  journey — I  don't  even  remember  bidding 
dear  Miss  Paxton  good-bye.  The  train  never 
seemed  to  go  fast  enough. 

At  length  we  neared  Smithville.  When  the 
train  whistled,  how  my  heart  leaped,  and  as  the 
train  rattled  across  the  old  railway  bridge  my 
face  was  pressed  against  the  car  window,  as  the 
lights  in  the  village  twinkled  a  welcome.  Our 
house  was  at  the  end  of  the  street,  and  I  saw  a 
light  in  the  window  glimmering  like  a  light- 
house in  a  harbor.  I  fancied  a  death-bed  scene; 
my  eyes  were  filled  with  tears.  Out  of  the 
"bus"  I  jumped  and  burst  in  at  the  door. 

"Mother,  mother!"  I  cried.  She  was  not 
there.  Could  it  be.''  My  father  grasped  and 
kissed  me. 

"Mother,  mother!"  I  again  cried  wildly. 

"Here,  Minza,"  cried  a  weak,  familiar  voice 
in  another  room. 

I  hurried  thither  and  smothered  that  pale, 
wan  face  with  kisses. 

"Another  brother,  Minza,"  said  father,  and 
there  in  the  dim  light  I  saw  the  little  face 
with  eyes  closed  on  the  other  side  of  the  bed. 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  59 

"Mother, mother,"!  cried, "another  brother?" 
Father  had  tea  ready,  but  I  could  not  eat  till 
I  had  wakened  little  Joe  and  Jim,  who  were 
sleeping  together  in  a  cot. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

The  Old  Home  Saved 

THE  next  morning  I  spent  in  going  all 
about  the  dear  old  house  to  see  that 
everything  was  there.  Little  Joe  and 
Jim  were  always  with  me,  and  I  was  happy. 
Mother  asked  me  to  sing,  and  when  I  finished 
she  called  me  in  to  kiss  me. 

"I  am  so  happy,  Minza,  and  wanted  to  see 
my  little  girl  so  badly." 

"I'll  never  go  back,  mother,  never!" 

It  seemed  that  there  had  been  some  fears  of 
her  dying  a  few  days  before,  and  they  had 
telegraphed  for  me;  but  that  morning  good, 
fat  old  Dr.  Waddington  came  in,  gave  me  a 
good  hug  and  kiss,  and  his  cheery  voice  soon 
assured  me  that  all  was  well  with  mother. 

"You  see,  I've  brought  you  another  brother, 
Minza,  and  he's  a  singer,  too." 

The  next  few  days  were  full  of  quiet  hap- 
piness. With  Angela  I  visited  all  our  old 
haunts,  the  millpond  and  the  creek  and  the 

60 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  61 

ruined  limekiln,  in  whose  shelter  she  tried  to 
tell  me  all  that  had  happened  in  Smithville 
in  a  year.  How  kind  everyone  seemed — all 
glad  to  see  me,  so  they  said.  Even  Squire 
Green  stopped  and  shook  hands  with  me. 

When  I  returned  to  the  house  I  found  Mr. 
Burroughes.  I  had  quite  forgotten  him  in 
my  happiness  at  getting  home. 

"Now,  just  one  song,  Minza,"  he  begged. 
"I  must  be  off  by  the  7.40  train." 

I  sang  for  him  with  all  my  heart.  He  came 
up  and  kissed  me;  his  bJue  eyes  seemed  to 
look  deep  into  my  heart.  It  is  not  often  that 
a  girl  hardly  in  her  teens  falls  in  love  with  a 
man  of  twenty-nine.  He  was  my  beau  ideal, 
and  I  did  not  know  until  years  after  that  his 
sacrifices  made  possible  my  first  musical  in- 
struction in  Boston. 

It  w^as  not  long  before  the  old  cloud  of  care 
and  indebtedness  engulfed  us  again. 

The  book  and  music  shop  had  not  been 
very  profitable  during  my  absence.  Mother's 
illness  had  stopped  the  revenue  from  teaching. 
Father,  however,  seemed  as  sanguine  as  in 
our  most  prosperous  days. 


62  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

*'We  must  be  thankful,"  he  said,  "that 
mother  is  spared  to  us." 

It  was  the  following  week  that  the  thunder- 
clap fell.  Father's  illness  had  rather  thrown 
him  out  of  the  way  of  doing  business,  and  to 
bridge  over  present  and  pressing  difficulties 
he  had  borrowed  three  hundred  dollars  and 
mortgaged  our  home,  expecting  that  the  sale 
of  our  two  horses  would  cover  it.  But  this 
morning  father's  uncle,  William  Gordon,  ar- 
rived from  England.  He  was  a  red-faced 
man  with  bonnet-string  whiskers.  His  face 
and  nose  were  frescoed  with  that  purple  tracery 
which  bespeaks  a  liberal  indulgence  in  beef 
and  beer.  He  had  thin  lips,  and  somehow  I 
felt  that  his  visit  foreboded  no  good. 

"I  had  forgotten  that  hundred  and  fifty 
dollars  entirely,  Uncle  William,"  I  heard  father 
say  to  him. 

"Ah,  but  I  'adn't,  me  boy.     So  I  came  to 
see  about  it  directly." 
i5"But  I  don't  know  how  I  can  pay  it  now." 

"Ah!  but  ye  'avn't  tried  to  pay  it,  and  I 
'old  a  mortgage  on  those  horses  and  must  'ave 


'em." 


Thai  be  bloired!      Your  hnfhcration  poor  management  loill  'ave 
IIS  liiill  ill  tlir  irork'ousc" 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  63 

He  was  to  take  old  Tom  and  Fan  and  sell 
them  at  auction  to  pay  the  principal  and  inter- 
est. Father  remonstrated  with  him  in  vain, 
for  a  sale  at  this  time  meant  a  sacrifice  of  half 
their  real  value. 

"But,  uncle,"  continued  father,  "I  must  pay 
the  mortgage  on  my  house  first." 

"That  be  blowed!  Your  botheration  poor 
management  will  'ave  us  all  in  the  work'ouse. 
I  must  'ave  the  'orses  directly.  You're  goin' 
to  slip  'em  from  me,  but  I  'old  a  mortgage." 

He  demanded  his  last  pound  of  flesh. 

In  the  morning  we  saw  him  take  old  Tom 
and  Fan  out  of  the  barn,  and  lead  them  awaj' 
down  the  lane.  We  all  cried  and  hugged  the 
old  horses  who  had  been  almost  a  part  of  the 
familv. 

"My  God!  All  is  lost,"  moaned  father. 
"How  can  I  pay  the  mortgage  now.f^" 

"It  will  come  out  all  right,  Robert,"  said 
mother,  who  was  sitting  up  for  the  first  time; 
"don't  worry." 

But  father  had  forgotten  that  the  mortgage 
was  so  soon  due,  and  that  very  week  a  fore- 
closure   notice    was    served     upon    him    and 


64  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

published  in  the  village  newspaper,  announcing 
that  our  home  was  to  be  sold  at  sheriff's  sale 
in  seveji  weeks.  Oh,  the  disgrace  of  seeing  that 
notice  in  the  paper! 

Instead  of  mending,  matters  became  worse. 
Father  tried  to  sell  the  music  business,  but  there 
were  no  buyers;  mother  offered  her  piano, 
but  no  one  had  money  just  then;  and  our  home 
was  to  be  sacrificed  under  the  sheriff's  hammer. 
The  sale  was  to  be  held  on  Monday,  and  on 
Sunday  I  went  to  church  with  gloomy  feelings. 
Just  as  I  was  entering  I  met  Tim  Rathbone, 
who  walked  along  with  me.  Tim  had  no  sisters, 
and  he  always  called  me  "Sister  Minza." 

"You're  not  stuck-up  if  you  have  been  to 
Boston,  are  you,  Minza?"  he  demanded. 

"No,  Tim,"  I  answered,  wretchedly;  "oh, 
I'm  so  miserable." 

"What's  up?"  he  asked  quickly. 

"Our  home  is  to  be  sold  tomorrow,  and  I — 
don't — "     I  burst  out  crying. 

"Go  to  the  bank  and  borrow  money  like  my 
dad/'  Tim  advised,  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets. 

"Yes,  but  they  won't  give  it  to  me." 


'^■■. 


"¥'■ 

% 

'.r 

^ 

^r-f 

1 

f 

it 

•<_ ;'        ->.>  •- 


_J 


'.S'//<'  ira)itx  Ihrcr  liiiiulred  dollars  to  /ki//  flint  mortgage  irhat's  hi'ing 
sold  todaji  at  her  home" 


THE  ^nNOR  CHORD  65 

"1*11  go  with  you,"  he  asserted. 

Tim's  words  comforted,  although  they  did 
not  reassure. 

The  sermon  that  day  was  on  the  text  "Take 
no  thought  for  the  morrow."  The  anthem 
followed,  and  its  reiterated  words,  "Without 
money — without — without — with — out  mon — 
ey  and  without — without — price,"  rolled  over 
and  over  on  the  singers'  tongues.  What  a, 
mockery ! 

Father  was  unmanned;  mother  was  still 
feeble  and  ill. 

The  next  morning  Tim  and  I  were  at  the 
bank  door  long  before  it  opened.  Mr.  Laneson, 
the  cashier,  came  up  to  us  and  asked  kindly: 

"Well,   what's  wanted,  my  little  ones?" 

"She  wants  three  hundred  dollars,"  spoke 
up  Tim  with  a  businesslike  air,  "to  pay  on 
that  mortgage  what's  being  sold  today  at  her 
house." 

"What  security  have  you.'"  asked  the  amused 
cashier. 

"Myself,"  I  spoke  up.  "Don't  you  think 
I'm  worth  three  hundred  dollars?" 

"Well,    well,"    smiled    the    now    interested 


66  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

official,  "but  you  see,  my  dear,  that's  not 
collateral  and  won't  pay  interest.  You  do  not 
understand  these  things,  my  little  girl," 

"But  I  must  have  the  money,  sir,"  I  sobbed. 
"I  will  sell  anything,  even  my  voice — only — " 

"Well  now,  let's  see  about  this,"  said  Mr. 
Laneson,  turning  to  a  clerk  who  seemed  to 
understand  all  the  circumstances.  Mr.  Laneson 
took  two  piles  of  bank  notes  from  the  counter, 
put  a  slip  on  the  big  hook  and  followed  me. 

The  sale  was  at  ten  o'clock  that  morning. 
The  sheriff  was  there  with  a  crowd  of  curious 
villagers,  few  of  whom  were  bidders — rather 
they  came  like  "keeners"  at  a  funeral.  The 
sheriff  was  about  to  raise  his  hammer  and 
begin  the  sale  when  Mr.  Laneson  whispered  in 
his  ear. 

Suddenly  the  sheriff  dropped  his  hammer. 
"Cut  off  my  fees,  too,"  he  said  in  a  loud  voice, 
"she's  a  plucky  gal,  she  is." 

The  sale  halted. 

I  went  home,  and  when  father  learned  that 
he  still  had  time  to  pay  up  the  mortgage  and 
that  Tim  and  I  had  saved  the  day,  he  broke 
down  completely. 


THE   MINOR   CHORD  67 

He  caught  me  to  his  breast.  "How  can  I 
ever  repay  you,  my  Httle  daughter?" 

"Father,"  I  said,  "I  should  never  have 
thought  of  it  but  for  Tim." 

Mother's  Hps  were  trembhng  and  her  loving 
eyes  moist  with  repressed  tears,  but  women,  I 
think,  and  especially  mothers,  mingle  in  their 
lives  so  much  of  joy  and  sorrow  that  they  bear 
either  success  or  loss  better  than  most  men. 
At  least  it  was  so  with  mother,  for  she  laid  her 
cool  hands  on  father's  forehead  and  loosened 
his  necktie  and  collar,  and  brought  him  a  glass 
of  cold  water  just  drawn  from  the  old  well. 

"Drink  this,  Robert,  dear,  and  be  calm. 
Minza  is  a  darling  girl  and  a  loving  daughter, 
but  let  us  thank  God  who  put  it  into  the  hearts 
of  strangers  to  be  kinder  and  more  generous 
than  our  own  flesh  and  blood.  Now  we  must 
go  to  work  again  and  plan  how  to  pay  good 
Mr.  Laneson  his  three  hundred  dollars;  but 
the  first  thing  to  do  is  to  get  a  good  dinner 
and  celebrate  our  deliverance." 

And  this  dear,  thoughtful  little  mother 
bustled  about,  making  biscuit,  frying  ham 
and  eggs,  and  brewing  coffee,  until  father  had 


68  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

quite  recovered  his  good  spirits  and  enjoyed 
our  little  banquet  almost  as  much  as  Joe  and 
Jimmy,  who  were  quite  jubilant  over  the 
unexpected  feast. 

"I  wish  Tim  were  here,"  said  father,  as  he 
sat  down  to  the  table.  "Where  is  he,  anyway?" 
But  Tim  had  fled  when  he  saw  how  greatly 
father  had  suffered,  and  I  did  not  see  him  again 
until  the  next  day. 

But  that  night,  after  I  had  gone  to  my  dear 
little  room  and  sat,  half  disrobed,  by  the  open 
window,  watching  the  fireflies  flicker  in  the 
lower  meadow,  mother  came  softly  in  and 
clasped  me  to  her  heart,  kissing  me  as  passion- 
ately as  father  had  done,  but  without  sobs  or 
tears.  "You  are  my  greatest  comfort,"  she 
murmured  in  her  old  loving  way,  which  always 
seemed  to  me  to  blend  a  lullaby  and  a  bene- 
diction, "but  I  could  not  tell  you  so  when 
your  father  was  so  greatly  agitated.  We  must 
always  be  careful  that  his  heart  and  brain  are 
not  too  greatly  taxed,  as  they  have  been  today, 
for  I  think  he  would  gladly  have  died  to  save 
this  little  home  farm  for  us.  Like  many  other 
soldiers,  he  has  really  sacrificed  years  of  what 


THE   MINOR   CHORD  69 

should  have  been  a  long  and  active  life,  for  his 
wounds  and  long  months  in  hospital  have  left 
weaknesses  which  can  never  be  wholly  out- 
grown. It  is  for  you  and  me,  Minza,  to  help 
him  and  lighten  his  burdens,  and  I  thank  God, 
dear  little  girl,  that  I  have  so  brave  and  ready 
a  helper  as  I  have  in  you." 

So  we  sat  together  for  a  brief  space,  while 
I  called  her  "Dear,  dear  mamma,"  stroked  her 
silky  hair  and  gave  and  received  many  kisses; 
but  as  she  rose  and  bade  me  good-night  a  single 
tear  fell  on  my  upturned  face  and  I  realized 
how  under  the  calm  and  helpful  exterior  glowed 
the  fire  of  womanly  devotion  and  maternal 
tenderness. 


CHAPTER  IX 
A  Concert  Tour 

THE  old  home  was  saved;  but  alas  for 
this  era  of  good  fortune.  I  had,  as  I 
thought,  sold  my  voice  for  three  hundred 
dollars. 

"This  money  must  be  paid  back  at  once  to 
Mr.  Laneson,"  said  mother,  caressing  the  new 
little  brother,  who  had  not  as  yet  been  dignified 
with  a  name. 

"We  will  sell  the  business,"  said  father. 

"No,"  replied  our  little  commander,  "we 
must  not  part  with  our  source  of  income. 
Minza,  you  must  give  concerts." 

"How  can  I,  mother.?"  I  asked,  incredulous. 

"It  must  be  done;  I  will  help  you.  We  will 
give  one  at  La  Ford,  at  Washville,  at  Smith- 
ville,  at  Brownstown,  and  other  places  if 
necessary." 

In  a  few  days  mother  began  her  preparations 
in  earnest.  I  had  to  practise  nine  hours  every 
week-day;     with    the    violin    six    hours,    the 

70 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  71 

piano  two  and  my  voice  one.  One  day  later 
Mr.  Burroiighcs  arrived  and  said  that  he  had 
secured  a  hoHday  vacation  to  help  us. 

"I  will  be  your  manager,  Minza,"  and  so 
Fred  became  our  advance  agent  and  business 
manager. 

Old  Dr.  Waddington  owned  the  village  paper, 
and  the  concert  was  advertised  weeks  before- 
hand in  large,  portentous  black  letters.  The 
story  of  my  saving  the  home  from  the  sheriff's 
sale  was  judiciously  gossiped  about,  and,  al- 
though I  did  not  realize  what  was  going  on, 
the  concert  was  looked  forward  to  with  uni- 
versal interest,  for  my  musical  studies  at 
Boston  promised  unusual  attraction  in  the 
minds  of  the  country  people,  although  its 
success  looked  dubious.  It  was  found  that  the 
Town  Hall  could  not  be  secured  for  that  even- 
ing, and  the  church  trustees,  at  the  request 
of  good  old  Doctor  Fraser,  decided  to  allow 
the  use  of  the  church  on  condition  that  "there 
shall  be  no  loud  or  sacreligious  applause." 

So  my  first  starring  tour  began  in  our  church. 
Is  it  any  wonder  that  I  love  its  simple  faith.' 

At  the  last  rehearsal   I   was  in   a  fever  of 


72  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

excitement.  Mother  had  planned  the  program 
so  as  to  bring  all  my  musical  powers  into 
play.  The  church  was  lighted  for  the  evening. 
Angela  and  the  other  girls  had  been  busy  with 
the  interior  decorations  all  the  afternoon. 
The  chandeliers  and  side  lamps  were  festooned 
with  evergreens  as  at  Christmas  time.  The 
people  began  to  come  in  early.  There  was  the 
usual  flutter  among  the  children  in  the  front 
seats  trying  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  what  was 
going  on  behind  the  curtain. 

The  first  number  was  "Pull  for  the  Shore" 
from  Gospel  Hymns.  I  sang  the  verses  and 
the  chorus  joined,  and  when  the  curtains 
were  drawn  aside  a  real  boat  glided  slowly 
across  the  sea-green  billows  of  the  stage,  laden 
with  passengers  in  Eastern  garb.  This  was 
simple  realism  that  pleased,  for  anything  that 
suggests  a  picture  of  Biblical  times  or  religious 
imagery  always  appeals  to  the  church-going 
people  of  the  smaller  towns. 

I  cannot  give  the  program  completely,  but 
I  remember  reciting  Jean  Ingelow's  * 'Polish 
Boy"  with  all  the  shrieking  fervor  of  the  brand- 
new  elocution  student.     Then  I  played  solos 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  73 

from  "Mignon"  and  "Maritana."  There  is 
no  instrumental  solo  that  is  so  effective 
with  the  average  audience  as  a  violin  selec- 
tion. The  face  and  form  of  the  performer, 
the  attitude  and  motion  of  his  limbs  and  form, 
as  unconsciously  he  bends  and  sways  to  the 
changing  harmonies  evoked  by  his  bow  and 
fingers,  give  an  added  and  peculiar  charm  to 
the  role  of  the  violinist. 

I  was  neatly  and  rather  richly  dressed,  for 
Mary  had  insisted  that  I  should  have  "one 
dress  just  like  mine,"  and  she  had  given  me 
sundry  bits  of  lace,  ribbons,  and  natty  ties,  and 
my  "Boston-made"  boots  were  still  untarnished 
and  close-fitting.  A  single  amethyst,  the  part- 
ing gift  of  Miss  Paxton,  gleamed  on  my  bow 
hand,  and  although  immature,  I  was  straight- 
limbed  and  of  good  figure.  I  was  determined 
to  win,  and  strings  and  bow  were  in  perfect 
order.  Never  warrior  felt  more  certain  of  suc- 
cess as  he  drew  his  battle-tried  sword  than  I 
did  as  I  made  my  bow  to  the  audience  and 
felt  my  violin  cuddling  close  to  my  lace-draped 
shoulder.  How  dear  the  old  violin  seemed  as  I 
caressed  it!    I  felt  my  soul  thrill  as  my  fingers 


74  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

touched  the  strings,  wandering  through  the  per- 
ilous ascents  of  the  higher  bars  and  descending 
into  the  dreamy  cadenza  amid  the  ahnost 
breathless  silence  of  my  friendly  audience. 

They  could  not  contain  their  appreciation, 
and  there  was  encore  after  encore  for  every 
violin  selection,  in  spite  of  the  church  trustees' 
warning.  If  I  remember  rightly,  my  singing 
was  not  so  well  applauded,  but  the  "Moon 
Dance"  from  "Dinorah"  seemed  to  please. 
The  concert  was  a  success,  and  mother's  dear 
face  shone  with  pride  and  hope  as  she  kissed 
me  good-night. 

We  drove  about  to  the  succeeding  concerts 
in  lumber  wagons.  Our  company,  including 
mothers  and  aunts  who  went  with  us  to  look 
after  the  children,  numbered  thirty-two.  The 
last  concert  was  given  at  Mount  Orling.  Fred 
Burroughes  told  me  there  were  fifty-two  of 
the  three  hundred  dollars  yet  to  raise,  and  he 
hoped  this  last  night  would  do  it.  Shortly 
before  eight  o'clock  that  evening  it  began  to 
rain  in  perfect  torrents;  the  outlook  was  very 
black.  There  were  only  sixteen  people  in  the 
house  at  the  time  for  beginning  the  concert. 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  75 

"Will  you  go  on  with  the  program,  Mrs. 
Maxwell?"   anxiously    whispered   Fred. 

"Certainly,"  she  replied. 

Of  course  the  singers  were  careless,  and  many 
mistakes  occurred.  It  nearly  unnerved  mother; 
it  seemed  such  an  inglorious  end  for  so  auspi- 
cious a  beginning.  For  the  last  number  I  sang 
a  solo  and  the  chorus  joined.  Some  of  the  sing- 
ers forgot  the  retard,  and  the  piece  ended 
pell-mell — a  breakdown!  The  girls  and  boys 
in  the  chorus  sniggered,  the  solitary  sixteen  in 
the  great  room  of  empty  chairs  tittered.  Quick 
as  a  flash  mother  struck  the  chords  for  "Home, 
Sweet  Home,"  and  nodded  to  me.  Visions  of 
the  sheriff's  sale  came  before  me  as  I  sang. 
Tears  were  in  my  eyes — mother's  were  moist. 

Home,  home,  sweet,  sweet  home. 

The  refrain  of  a  song  that  thrills  the  hearts 
of  all  men  in  every  clime  hushed  the  laughter 
and  turned  the  contemptuous  smiles  into  soft- 
ened admiration.  Again  and  yet  again  the  last 
verse  was  encored,  and  our  last  concert  was 
over  and  the  curtain  fell. 

Just    then    Mr.    Burroughes    came    forward 


76  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

rather  dejectedly.  Old  Farmer  Goulden,  who 
owned  a  large  number  of  farms  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, followed  him. 

"That  gal  ought  to  be  a  big  singer,  mum," 
he  said  to  mother. 

"Yes,  sir,"  she  replied  softly. 

"Durn  poor  house  tonight.  Say,  little  un, 
sing  that  air  song  ag'in." 

It  was  sung  to  please  him.  Tears  stood  in 
his  eyes. 

"May  I  kiss  the  gal,  mum?  I  just  lost  my 
little  gal  Olga — she  sleeps  in  the  cimetary  out 
there,  mum — she's  in  that  home  over  there, 
the  Lord  be  praised,  mum.  Say,  this  little 
gal  can  sing,  and  that's  the  song  my  Olga 
used  to  sing.  Say,  mum,  that  was  worth  fifty 
dollars  to  me;  by  gosh  it  was;  and  ye've  had 
tuff  luck  tonight.  Buy  that  gal  suthin'  with 
this.     Good  even'." 

He  was  gone,  and  had  left  a  crisp  fifty  dollar 
bank-note  in  mother's  hands. 

There  was  a  consultation  as  to  whether  it 
should  be  kept.  I  said  "yes,"  and  Fred  obeyed 
me,  although  mother  protested. 

It  was  a  dreary  ride  home,  six  miles  through 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  77 

muddy  roads  after  the  rain;  but  the  battle 
was  won,  and  tomorrow  the  debt  to  Mr.  Lane- 
son  should  be  nearly  all  paid  from  the  concert 
funds,  and  my  voice  was  my  own  again. 

This  was  my  first  concert  tour.  Time  always 
softens  the  rough  edges  of  hard  experiences, 
and  now  I  look  back  on  those  days  as  among 
the  happiest  of  my  life — even  a  minor  chord 
has  a  charm  in  life  or  in  music  that  nothing 
more  lively  and  joyous  can  ever  equal.  It  is 
a  striking  fact  that  the  songs  and  music  of  the 
great  fighting  races,  notably  the  Irish,  Scotch, 
and  Germans — nay,  one  might  say  of  Norse- 
man, Saxon  and  Briton — have  mainly  had  an 
undertone  of  sadness  that  was  not  fear,  and 
devotion  which  linked  the  hopes  of  triumph 
with  resignation  to  the  death  of  the  hero,  and 
the  sombre  dignity  of  the  warrior's  tomb. 


CHAPTER  X 

Father  Launches  into  Politics 

A  FTER  the  concert  experience,  father  sur- 
J~\^  prised  us  by  solemnly  announcing  that 
he  was  going  into  politics. 

"Mother,  they  want  me  to  run  for  town 
recorder.  All  the  business  men  and  leading 
taxpayers  of  the  village  have  promised  to 
support  me,  and — " 

"Robert,  you  know  I  dislike  politics,  and  I 
am  afraid  that  you  are  too  trusting." 

"Oh,  no,  Helen;  they  would  not  be  so  anxious 
if  that  were  true,  and  besides,  the  salary  is 
two  hundred  dollars  a  vear,  and  that  would 
help  feed  these  little  mouths." 

"Nevertheless,  I  don't  approve  of  it,"  per- 
sisted mother;  "they're  a  deceiving  lot — those 
politicians." 

"Well,  nothing  risk,  nothing  gain,  mother. 
Faint  heart  ne'er  won  fair  lady." 

For  a  long  time  the  gossips  of  the  village 
talked  of  that  election  day  a  week  later,  for 

78 


THE  MINOR  CHORD 


79 


the  partial  revolt  of  the  younger  men  against 
"the  regular  ticket"  was  something  unheard 
of  and  by  the  pioneer  residents  almost  consid- 
ered little  better  than  "the  unpardonable  sin." 
They  had  long  been  accustomed  to  quietly 
make  up  a  slate,  and  almost  as  certainly  "the 
winning  ticket."  Father  had  good  reason  to 
believe  that  he  would  receive  the  humble 
office,  whose  tiny  salary  would  mean  so  much 
to  our  home  treasury.  The  more  prosperous 
young  men  of  the  town  were  just  then  led  by 
a  young  attorney  who  was  one  of  those  that 
had  induced  father  to  become  a  candidate; 
but  he  held  that  "everything  is  fair  in  politics," 
and  he  sought  the  office  for  himself.  There 
was  not  much  of  a  contest  on  the  balance  of 
father's  ticket,  which  was  printed  as  follows — 
I  still  have  it: 


For  Mayor:  WILLIAM  BOWDISH 
For  Assessor:  JAMES  GALLAXY 
For  Trustee:  WILLIAM  HOOKING 
For  Recorder:  ROBERT  MAXWT:LL 


80  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

Father  was  on  the  popular  and  winning 
ticket.  I  went  with  him  to  the  election  quarters 
in  the  afternoon.  The  room  was  blue  with 
smoke  from  the  cigars  of  a  host  of  idlers.  The 
ballot  box  was  presided  over  by  two  old  citi- 
zens. Clerks  wrote  down  the  names  of  the 
voters,  as  the  tickets  were  folded  and  handed 
to  the  inspectors,  and  put  through  the  small 
hole  in  the  ballot-box  with  solemnity. 

"Well,  Robert,"  joked  old  Squire  Green, 
''you'll  have  a  walk-away."  Something  told 
me  that  he  was  lying;  but  guileless,  trusting 
father  believed  and  was  happy. 

A  moment  later  father's  opponent,  the  young 
attorney,  Cicero  Corbutt,  entered  the  room, 
followed  by  his  disorderly  supporters.  On  their 
lapels  they  wore  printed  labels,  "Sooner  men." 

"Rah  for  Cicero!  We're  'Sooners,'  we  are, 
and  we'll  knock  out  the  durned  old  machine 
mossbacks." 

They  filed  in  and  voted.    Many  of  them  were 
men  temporarily  employed  in  building  a  rail-, 
road  some  distance  from  the  village.     Cicero 
glared  at  us  through  his  spectacles  as  if  to  say, 
"I'm   a   politician." 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  81 

"We'll  fix  'em,  boys — we  must  hustle  some 
more  votes,"  he  cried. 

"Rah  for  the  'Sooners' !  "  was  the  echoing 
response. 

"Come  an'  have  something,  boj^s,"  declaimed 
the  oratorical  Cicero,  and  he  led  his  horde 
of  railroaders  and  town  loafers  out  of  the  door. 

How  breathlessly  we  waited  the  result  of 
the  count  that  night!  I  had  my  fears,  but 
hoped  and  prayed  somehow  that  father  had 
a  majority  of  the  votes.  He  laughed  at  my 
anxiety. 

"Why,"  he  said  confidently,  "do  you  sup- 
pose that  Smithville,  the  respectable  taxpayers 
of  Smithville,  will  allow  those  rowdies  to  rule 
us.'*  I  must  go  down  and  be  ready  for  con- 
gratulations." 

Not  long  after  he  had  gone  we  heard  the  wild 
yells  from  the  Town  Hall,  "Rah  for  Sooners — 
Sooners    gits    there — whoop-la-tiger-ree!" 

Father's  ticket  had  won  the  day,  but  Cicero 
had  printed  "split"  tickets  with  all  the  names 
of  the  opposition  ticket  on  them  except  father's, 
and  his  own  name  inserted  instead.  Many  of 
the  tickets  had  undoubtedly  been  put  in  by 


82  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

voters  under  the  impression  that  they  were 
voting  the  straight  ticket  with  father's  name 
upon  it,  but  they  had  voted  the  fatal  "split" 
ticket  and  it  was  impossible  "to  go  back  on 
the   returns." 

The  winning  candidate  had  induced  an 
honorable  man  to  run  for  office;  had  promised 
him  his  support  and  discussed  with  him  the 
simple  tactics  of  an  honest  canvass;  and  then 
had  his  own  name  substituted  on  an  appar- 
ently straight  ticket,  and  presumably  brought 
in  a  lot  of  fraudulent  voters,  primed  with 
whiskey,  and  utterly  irresponsible  as  citizens. 

But  this  was  American  politics;  it  was  called 
shrewd  and  sharp  tactics. 

All  was  done  that  could  be  done  at  the  last, 
but  even  as  a  few  belated  friends  drove  up  to 
the  door  the  polls  were  closed,  and  the  result 
was  soon  announced. 

"Three  cheers  for  Cicero!"  rang  out  on  the 
night  air. 

The  day  was  lost  and  father  soon  came  home. 
"Beaten  by  two  votes,"  was  all  he  said. 

"Enough  of  politics,  Robert,"  said  mother 
softly. 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  83 

I  felt  very  bitter  toward  Cicero  Corbutt,  but 
our  ways  soon  drifted  apart,  and  I  never  had 
an  opportunity  for  my  well-planned  revenge. 
Every  politician  has  his  day,  and  the  leader 
of  the  "Sooners"  was  shelved  in  the  prime  of 
life;  they  say  he  is  now  a  political  derelict, 
struggling  to  rise  again. 

As  to  father,  he  retired  from  the  dazzling 
arena  of  American  politics,  and  never  forgot 
the  lesson. 


CHAPTER  XI 

My  First  Sweetheart 

IN  spite  of  the  political  defeat,  we  managed 
to    live.      We    can    always    bear    reverses 
better    when    realized    than    when    antici- 
pated.   I  continued  going  to  school  and  assist- 
ing father  at  the  music  store,  and  mother  was 
able  to  resume  her  teaching. 

My  last  days  at  the  old  brick  schoolhouse, 
with  its  cracked  bell,  were,  I  think,  the  happiest 
of  my  life. 

Our  teacher  was  Ellen  Riser,  a  typical, 
strong-minded,  self-reliant  American  woman, 
and  loved  by  us  all.  What  a  rivalry  there  was 
among  us  girls  to  stay  with  her  at  night!  She 
alwavs  seemed  above  us:  not  out  of  our  reach 
— but  always  one  of  us.  Her  methods  of 
teaching  were  rather  unconventional.  We  were 
taught  to  probe  for  reason  and  logic  rather  than 
to  memorize  rules,  and  her  clear  methods  of 
explanation  always  illuminated  our  childish 
comprehension.    She  interested  us  and  inspired 

84 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  85 

us  with  a  generous  rivalry  that  stimulated 
effort  and  ambition  for  the  future.  She  cared 
little  for  the  parrot-like  recitation  of  tables  of 
weights  and  measures,  rules  of  grammar  and 
the  like,  but  she  would  cut  an  apple  into  frac- 
tions to  enlighten  a  dazed  pupil,  and  get  the 
boys  excited  over  a  contest  in  laying  out  a 
square  rod,  rood  or  acre,  in  the  adjoining  fields. 
She  encouraged  each  to  make  the  most  of  his 
natural  gifts,  and  even  sly  little  "Monkey  Dean," 
who  drew  a  singularly  crude  but  effective  car- 
toon of  the  new  teacher,  was  only  suitably 
admonished  and  delighted  with  the  gift  of 
some  simple  drawing  cards,  whence  in  due 
season  he  evolved  some  pictures  in  colored  cray- 
ons which  were  the  wonder  of  the  district  and 
the  pride  of  the  school. 

She  allowed  us  boys  and  girls  to  talk  together 
during  recess  and  after  school.  The  boys 
somehow  would  manage  to  sit  beside  us  at 
classes,  and  by  passing  from  hand  to  hand 
an  occasional  sly  note  during  school  hours 
would  arrange  "company  home"  after  the 
Lyceum,  held  every  Friday  night  in  the  high 
school  room,   from   which  entertainments  the 


86 


THE  MINOR  CHORD 


boys  were  allowed  to  see  the  girls  home.  It 
was  thus  that — oh,  most  foolishly'  happy  and 
most  memorable  day — I  received  my  first  note, 
which  read:  "Mav  I  see  voii  safelv  home  from 
Lyceum  Friday  night? — Timothy  Rathbone." 

I  had  always  been  styled  "red-headed," 
and  felt  keenly  the  imputation  of  being 
"homely,"  and  even  now  I  laugh  and  blush  to 
think  how  that  simple  tribute  thrilled  me.  I 
had  always  "been  a  sister"  to  the  boys  before, 
helping  on  the  innocent  amours  of  the  other 
couples;  but  now  I  had  a  lover  of  my  own. 
I  replied,  in  a  tiny  mis-spelled  little  note: 
"Your  company  is  excepted. — Minza." 

Next  morning,  as  was  customary  when 
a  boy  and  girl  began  to  talk  interestingly 
alone  together,  there  appeared  on  the  black- 
board in  flaming  letters,  these  words: 


to  the  temporary  confusion  of  Tim  and  myself 
and  the  unalloyed  delight  of  our  schoolmates. 


THE  INHNOR  CHORD  87 

So  Tim  and  I  went  on  through  our  schooldays, 
passing  from  the  intermediate  to  the  grammar 
grade,  from  grammar  to  high,  playing  hard 
and  working  together,  ideal  boy  and  girl 
companions. 

In  those  days  it  was  quite  the  rage  among 
school  children  to  give  "surprise  parties,"  when 
we  would  gather  at  a  friend's  house,  each  bring- 
ing his  or  her  share  of  refreshments,  and  then 
raid  the  village,  intent  on  giving  someone  a 
"surprise  party."  We  did  not  dance  as  a  rule, 
and  the  amusements  were  generally  kissing 
games,  in  which  even  the  "old  folks"  present 
took  part,  and  we  had  good  honest  merriment 
and  a  hearty  supper  to  end  it  all.  How  well 
I  remember  these  parties,  when  the  clothesline 
arena  of  "Copenhagen"  was  shaken  and  swayed 
by  flying  girls  and  pursuing  swains,  when 
serried  rows  of  seated  girls  "clapped  out"  the 
unfortunate  who  flattered  himself  that  he  knew 
who  wanted  him  seated  in  the  chair  beside  her; 
and  the  rippling  fun  of  "cover,"  "post-office," 
"spat  'em  out,"  "hissing  and  clapping,"  with 
forfeits  and  fines,  and  the  merriment  incident 
to  paying  the  penalties. 


88  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

The  first  night  Tim  took  me  home  he  barely 
touched  my  arm,  and  we  ahnost  ran,  rather 
than  walked  along  the  road.  They  called  Tim 
"Wildy,"  an  abbreviation  for  "Wild  Irishman," 
but  his  heart  was  good;  he  loved  his  mother, 
and  that  won  my  sj'mpathy  and  respect. 

One  night  we  passed  the  old  limekiln  on  our 
way  home  from  the  Lyceum.  It  was  a  lovely 
night  in  June.  The  air  was  heavy  with  the 
subtly-odorous  aroma  of  newly-turned  ground 
and  the  smouldering  of  burning  leaves  in  the 
gardens.  The  summer  moon  and  twinkling 
stars  made  the  night  glorious. 

"Minza,  we  graduate  this  month,  and  I'm 
going  away,"  said  Tim  at  last, 

"Is  that  so.'*"  said  I  innocently,  although  I 
knew  it  well. 

"Yes,  and  we're  going  to  part,  and  I — " 

"Oh,  isn't  that  a  pretty  star,  Tim?" 

"Now,  Minza,  you  can't  break  in  that  way; 
we're  going  to  be  married  some  day." 

"Is  that  so?" 

"Yes,  and  you  know  it;  I'm  going  to  be  a 
lawyer,  and  I  want  you  to — " 

"Look  out  for  that  cow,  Tim!" 


//  ira.s  on  a  lovely  niyhi  in  June 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  89 

"Now,  Minza,  you  must  not  flirt  and  go  with 
the  other  fellows,  when  I  am  gone,  will  you?" 

"Why,  Tim,  we  can't  be  married  right  away, 
and — "  but  he  would  not  be  denied. 

"Minza,  you're  the  best  girl  on  earth,  next 
to  mother." 

I  liked  him  even  for  that  exception — but  I 
was  only  a  young  girl  then. 

"And  now  I  am  going  to  kiss  you,"  he  con- 
tinued in  his  own  brusque  way.  "When  I'm 
a  lawyer,  we  will  travel  over  Europe,  like  Mrs. 
Buggins." 

"Don't  vou  think  these  are  the  same  stars 
that  are  over  in  Europe  now?" 

"Minza's  my  star  always,"  he  said,  as  ar- 
dently as  a  boy  can,  as  he  kissed  me  again  and 
held  me  in  his  arms,  as  he  had  seen  lovers  on 
the  stage  and  in  pictures.    We  were  betrothed. 

I  think  pictures  and  stage  scenes  educate 
boys  and  girls  into  young  lovers.  Tim's  dark, 
earnest  eyes  were  very  sincere,  and  his  silky 
curls  falling  just  below  his  little  cap  made  him 
a  charming  picture  of  a  young  girl's  first  lover. 

Graduation  Day  drew  near.  Tim  was  to 
deliver  the  valedictory,  a  tribute  to  his  good 


90  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

record  and  really  excellent  declamation.  In 
his  neat  new  suit  and  white  vest  and  gloves, 
he  looked  the  part  he  sought  to  play  on  the  stage 
of  life:  the  honest,  earnest,  fearless  country 
boy,  going  into  the  big  cities  to  pit  his  simple 
honesty  against  intrigue  and  temptation.  The 
exercises  were  to  be  held  in  the  church,  which 
was  decorated  with  the  roses  and  flowers  of 
June,  and  over  the  stage  was  a  translated  Latin 
motto  worked  in  evergreens: 


"no  steps  backward" 


All  was  excitement  over  our  dresses.  Here 
began  my  first  WTCstle  with  stage  costumes. 
There  were  sixteen  in  the  class  and  we  had  our 
pictures  taken  the  afternoon  before  Graduation 
Dav. 

What  ambitious  hopes  throbbed  that  night. 
We  felt  as  if  we  were  quite  ready  for  real  life. 
Miss  Riser  assisted  at  the  rehearsal  of  our  es- 
says and  orations.  My  theme  was  "The  Tale 
of  an  Old  Shoe";  the  others  learnedly  discussed 
"Success,"  "Happiness,"  "Wisdom,"  and  other 
great  problems. 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  91 

Evening  arrived.  Mother  was  there  to  look 
after  the  music,  and  even  Httle  Joe  and  the 
babies  were  brought  "to  see  Sissy  graduate." 
All  the  parents  beamed  fondly  upon  the 
graduates.  Old  Beenier,  the  deaf  blacksmith, 
was  in  the  front  seat,  and  his  eyes  never  left 
sweet,  blushing  little  Dora,  his  only  daughter. 
We  sat  in  a  semicircle;  all  the  girls  were  clad 
in  white  and  resplendent  in  white  slippers. 
Miss  Riser  sat  at  one  side,  attired  in  neat 
black,  with  white  ruching  and  laces  about  her 
neck. 

Some  of  the  boys  forgot  their  orations,  and 
the  same  breathless  thrill  held  me  that  I  still 
feel  just  before  appearing  on  the  stage.  The 
smaller  girls  brought  the  floral  trophies  and 
laid  them  at  our  feet. 

"  'Tale  of  an  Old  Shoe,'  Miss  Minza  Max- 
well!"   I  arose  and  bowed  to  Miss  Riser. 

"Dat's  my  sissy!  dat's  my  sissy!"  broke  out 
little  Jimmy  in  the  audience. 

A  little  nervously  I  started  to  read.  The 
first  pages  were  missing!  I  looked  and  felt 
blank.  Miss  Riser  glanced  over  and  blushed. 
An  awkward  pause.     I  looked  straight  ahead 


92  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

despairingly,  and  from  memory  repeated,  as 
best  I  could,  the  missing  pages.  As  soon  as  I 
could  depend  upon  the  manuscript  again  the 
terrible  lump  in  my  throat  left  me,  but  it  did 
not  save  me  from  a  poignant  sense  of  humilia- 
tion, although  a  generous  round  of  applause 
followed  my  really  well-composed  peroration. 

After  the  exercises  the  audience  surged  for- 
ward to  congratulate  the  happy  young  gradu- 
ates, but  I  felt  ashamed  and  so  humiliated  by 
my  failure  that  I  could  scarcely  restrain  my 
tears,  until  Miss  Riser,  who  had  parted  with 
the  others,  took  me  aside  and  gave  me  a  warm 
kiss. 

"Dear  Minza,  you  are  going  to  be  famous 
some  day.  I  am  proud  of  you.  In  the  years 
to  come,  do  not  forget  how  your  old  school 
teacher   loved   j^ou. 

"You  must  not  feel  too  bad  over  your 
disappointment,  for  great  speakers  often  meet 
with  worse  accidents,  and  do  not  overcome 
them  half  as  bravely  as  you  did;  and  the  last 
part  of  your  theme  was  the  finest  of  them  all." 

That  autumn  father  unexpectedly  fell  in  with 
an  old  comrade  who  had  in  charge  the  collec- 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  93 

tion  department  of  a  great  corporation  engaged 
in  making  and  selling  agricultural  machinery. 
The  harvesters,  headers,  gang  plows,  wagons, 
engines,  and  threshing  machines  so  univesally 
used  by  lowan  farmers  were  generally  bought 
on  terms  that  included  a  moderate  cash  pay- 
ment, and  secured  notes  for  the  balance  at  six 
months,  one  and  two  years,  which  were  seldom 
paid  unless  gently  pressed  upon  the  notice  of 
the  debtor,  no  matter  how  successful  the 
season.  The  local  agents  did  not  like  to  become 
unpopular;  the  local  banks  and  attorneys  had 
their  own  interests,  and  those  of  more  favored 
correspondents  to  consider,  and  the  machinery 
company  hired  special  collectors  to  close  up 
the  year's  business. 

Father  was  engaged  at  once  and  given 
charge  of  three  or  four  counties,  at  a  salary 
of  one  hundred  dollars  a  month  and  expenses, 
and  I  never  saw  such  a  change  in  any  man  as 
he  presented,  hopeful,  animated  and  ready 
to  start  out  with  ample  funds  for  expenses 
and  a  week's  salary  to  leave  at  home.  It  was 
his  first  relief  from  loss,  humiliation  and 
poverty  for  several  years,  and  it  did  me  good 


94  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

to  see  that  dear,  brave,  loyal  father  once 
more  "himself  again."  Mother  was  now  to 
stay  at  home,  and  a  favorable  offer  was  made 
for  the  store  and  good  will;  it  was  only  a  few 
hundred  dollars,  but  mother  had  many  pupils, 
and  was  determined  that  I  should  go  to  college 
before  resuming  my  musical  career. 

I  don't  know  that  I  properly  appreciated 
the  self-sacrifice  and  care  of  my  parents;  in- 
deed, I  think  that  very  few  young  people  do. 
We  get  used  to  being  petted,  fed,  clothed  and 
mothered;  go  out  away  from  home  to  enjoy 
ourselves  and  back  home  again  to  eat  and  to 
sleep,  and  certainly  fail  to  see  how  father 
grows  weary  sooner  than  he  did  years  ago  and 
how  mother's  form  and  hands  have  lost  much 
of  their  shapeliness  with  interminable  labors 
of  love  for  the  nestlings  which  erelong,  for 
their  own  good,  the  parent  birds  must  push  out 
of  the  cosy  home  nest. 

As  the  train  bore  me  away  from  Smithville 
my  mind  wandered  back  to  those  sleeping 
baby  faces,  and  to  mother,  holding  the  lamp 
and  shading  her  eyes  for  a  last  look  at  me 
through   the   darkness. 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  95 

Well,  life  is  made  up  of  greetings  and  part- 
ings, but  it  always  seemed  to  me  that  some  of 
my  saddest  trials  were  these  partings  and 
absences  from  home. 

In  the  United  States  the  apartment  house, 
the  big  department  store,  the  ease,  rapidity  and 
common  use  of  transportation  facilities  have 
a  decided  tendency  to  lessen  the  charm  and 
sentiment  that  has  made  "Home,  Sweet  Home" 
a  strong  and  conserving  factor  in  American 
life.  Sometimes  I  think  that  there  are  no 
American  homes  today  in  the  big  cities. 


CHAPTER  XII 

The  Entrance  and  Exit  at  College 

THERE  are  many  good  colleges,  but  of 
course  I  think  old  Cornwell  is  the  best  of 
all,  and  yet  I  vividly  recall  how  lone- 
some and  strange  it  seemed  on  my  first  arrival ! 
From  the  pictures  I  had  seen  I  recognized  the 
buildings  on  the  hills,  and  the  foHage  was 
radiant  with  the  brightest  hues  of  autumn. 
The  old  chapel  tower  and  the  chimes  of  the 
clock  still  mingle  with  my  first  recollections. 

We  drove  along  the  shaded  road  up  the 
long  hill  to  the  "Sem,"  or  "Nunnery,"  as  it 
was  called.     Here  the  girls  boarded. 

As  we  passed  by  the  long  row  of  pleasant 
cottages  I  fancied  that  each  occupant  must 
necessarily  be  a  theological  student  without 
care  or  thought  for  worldly  things. 

Who  knew  but  in  one  of  these  homes  there 
dwelt  the  typical  young  student  with  long 
moustache  who  would  captivate  my  youthful 
fancies?  Here,  on  the  other  hand,  I  thought,  a 

96 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  97 

professor  must  dwell,  for  there  was  a  hammock 
on  the  porch,  and  what  student  would  have 
time  to  swing  in  a  hammock? 

Miss  Booker,  the  preceptress,  met  me  on 
the  broad  steps  that  led  up  to  the  study  halls 
over  the  dining-room.  The  girls  peeped  from 
behind  the  doors  of  the  rooms,  giving  shy  glances 
at  me  as  I  passed  through  the  hall  with  my 
homely  green  bag.  How  I  longed  for  Angela 
or  someone  that  I  knew! 

Miss  Booker  was  a  severely  intellectual 
woman,  cold  and  austere.  Her  face  was 
wrinkled  from  study,  and  her  false  teeth  made 
her  mouth  look  full,  firm  and  decided,  but  she 
was  a  woman  of  lofty  ideals  and  tried  to  be 
kind;  a  rather  difficult  task  I  reahze  today 
for  a  woman  with  a  never-ending  succession  of 
immature,  undisciplined  feminines  to  keep  in 
comfort,  good  order  and  a  reasonable  devotion 
to  study.  I  see  now,  as  I  did  not  see  then, 
that  emotional  people  cannot  long  indulge  in 
effusive  tenderness  and  keep  up  a  healthy 
discipline.  I  have  no  doubt  that  we  were  all 
somewhat  unjust  in  our  estimate  of  Miss 
Booker. 


98  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

After  Professor  Garlem,  the  president,  had 
classified  me  as  a  result  of  my  examination 
marks  from  the  High  School,  I  began  to  feel 
more  at  home.  As  I  was  the  last  pupil  to  arrive, 
I  was  given  a  little  room  on  the  third  floor  by 
myself.  The  furniture  was  simple — a  chair, 
table,  washstand,  small  mirror,  a  little  wooden 
bedstead  and  a  rug.  Yet  it  was  seclusion — a 
retreat,  and  I  soon  learned  to  love  it  as  home. 
At  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning  we  were  to 
be  ready  for  breakfast  in  the  basement.  Our 
oatmeal  was  always  steaming  hot.  At  7.45 
came  our  Latin  lesson,  with  its  endless  conju- 
gations and  declensions.  The  conjugations 
were  a  nightmare. 

At  8.30  the  dear  old  chapel  bell  rang  out 
the  summons  for  the  day.  We  each  had  our 
particular  seat  at  the  table  and  in  the  chapel. 

The  devotional  exercises  were  conducted  in 
turn  by  different  members  of  the  faculty. 
Professor  Boysen's  long  prayers  were  supposed 
to  match  his  long,  patriarchal  whiskers.  He 
reminded  me  of  the  pictures  of  Moses.  Little 
Professor^Goblin's  study  of  Greek  gave  him 
choice  language,  but  his  Boston  pronunciation 


THE  INIINOR  CHORD  99 

made  it  just  as  difficult  to  understand  as  the 
Greek  itself.  Miss  Booker's  appeals  were  cold 
and  classic,  like  her  smiles.  Professor  Collins- 
gate's  prayer  was  a  meek  and  timid  supplica- 
tion from  a  soft- voiced  and  timid  little  man. 
Professor  Brighton  was  always  short,  sharp,  and 
crusty,  and  his  low  shoes  often  revealed  the 
dissimilar  colors  of  poorly  matched  hosiery. 
Professor  Wilhelm  looked  upward  with  much 
the  same  civil-engineering  squint  as  when  he 
peered  through  a  theodolite  in  teaching  prac- 
tical mensuration  to  his  class.  It  is  still  told 
how  in  one  of  his  appeals  for  the  divine  favor, 
he  began  by  saying,  "Paradoxical  as  it  may 
appear  unto  thee,  O  Lord,  it  is,  nevertheless, 
true" — most  of  the  sentence  being  almost 
word  for  word  a  part  of  his  remarks  in  the  class- 
room a  day  or  two  before. 

These  impromptu  prayers  were  so  often 
repeated  that  each  one  seemed  to  have  com- 
mitted his  pet  phrases  to  memory,  and  the  same 
words  rolled  out  time  after  time.  Lieutenant 
Jenkins  from  West  Point,  who  had  charge  of 
the  college  battalions,  did  not  lead  in  religious 
services.    He  simply  bowed  his  bald  head  very 


100  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

reverently  and  looked  good.  Miss  Bernard, 
one  of  the  teachers  in  the  Musical  Conserva- 
tory, presided  at  the  grand  piano  and  gave  her 
pretty  head  a  nod  to  begin  the  singing.  Those 
songs  were  the  inspiring  portion  of  the  service. 
How  the  five  hundred  voices  used  to  ring  out 
the  old  "Portuguese  Hymn": 

"How  firm  a  foundation, 
Ye  saints  of  the  Lord." 

Strangers  to  our  Alma  Mater  and  distin- 
guished visitors  were  usually  requested  to  ad- 
dress a  few  remarks  to  the  student  body, 
and  how  wickedly  we  used  to  pray  that  their 
speeches  would  encroach  on  the  next  class 
hour,  which  was  usually  a  course  in  mathe- 
matics. 

Under  Miss  Bernard  I  continued  my  vocal 
studies  and  gradually  became  acquainted  with 
the  other  students.  I  thought  it  a  crowning 
honor  when  the  Philomathean  Society  invited 
me  to  join  their  circle.  A  few  days  later  the 
Galateans,  the  rival  society,  also  invited  me; 
but  I  chose  the  first.  Programs  of  a  literary 
and  musical  character  were  given  every  Friday 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  101 

evening  and  I  was  often  asked  to  give  vocal 
selections.  After  the  exercises  a  social  session 
was  held,  and  "Rule  No.  12"  was  suspended  for 
the  occasion,  and  the  boys  allowed  to  "see" 
the  girls  home.  The  first  few  times  I  walked 
across  the  campus  alone  to  the  "Sem,"  with 
the  other  homely  girls.  But  all  homely  girls 
have  some  charm  which  attracts  admiration 
more  than  mere  beauty  itself.  A  well-formed 
and  delicate  hand,  a  dimpled,  cheery  face, 
shining  teeth,  pretty  hair,  laughing  eyes,  or 
a  clever  tongue — every  girl  is  blessed  with 
some  attraction,  and  womankind  spends  a  large 
fraction  of  her  waking  hours  in  planning  to 
appear  beautiful. 

I  envied  the  more  attractive  girls  with 
lovers,  but  one  night  Bob  Burnette,  the  janitor 
of  the  "Sem,"  asked  to  "see  me  home."  He 
was  a  bright  fellow,  and  always  left  me  a 
generous  amount  of  wood  with  which  to  build 
my  fires.  He  had  worn  his  coat  through  by 
carrying  the  firewood  on  his  shoulders,  and  I 
mended  it  for  him.  We  became  good  friends, 
and  he  called  me  his  "sister." 

"Surely,"  thought  I,  "Tim  will  not  care,"  as 


102  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

I  looked  into  the  boyish  face  of  the  photograph 
on  my  table. 

Robert  was  my  father's  name,  and  I  was 
rather  pleased  to  have  his  namesake's  com- 
pany. He  pressed  my  arm  tightly  as  we  walked 
down  the  lane  shaded  with  trees  on  either  side, 
and  lit  by  the  moonbeams  shining  through  the 
latticework  of  branches.  Such  scenes  are  love's 
favorite  shrines,  for  a  few  half-whispered  words 
and  glances  in  such  soft,  silent  shadows  speak 
subtly  to  the  heart. 

Robert  was  a  self-reliant  fellow,  making  his 
way  through  college  and  studying  for  the 
ministry.  While  he  was  not  exactly  ostracized 
by  the  "Sem"  girls,  they  seemed  to  think  very 
little  of  associating  with  "our  janitor."  The 
rich  men's  sons  were  in  greater  demand. 

Now  I  had  no  idea  of  falling  in  love  with 
him.  In  fact,  I  don't  think  I  knew  what  love 
was,  but  I  must  confess  I  liked  him,  and  in 
the  opinion  of  "the  girls"  he  was  my  "solid 
fellow." 

One  Saturday,  after  a  lonely  walk,  I  found  a 
note  under  my  door,  with  a  liberal  allowance 
of  firewood  outside: 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  103 

"Minza,  I  must  see  you  tonight. — Robert." 

I  could  not  inuigine  wliat  it  meant,  as  we 
always  met  each  other  several  times  a  day. 

It  had  been  raining,  and  was  a  cold,  damp 
night.  I  wanted  to  post  a  letter  home.  Robert 
was  passing  with  an  umbrella. 

"Robert,  may  I  borrow  your  umbrella?" 

"You  may,  if  you  borrow  me." 

"All  right,"  I  said,  and  off  we  went  in  the 
rain.  The  umbrella  was  small  and  we  were 
rather  close  together.  He  was  evidently  ner- 
vous about  something  and  talked  but  little. 
Just  as  we  were  about  to  turn  into  the  campus, 
under  the  light  of  a  street  lamp,  he  turned  to 
me  and  said: 

"Minza,  I  love  you,  and — "  That  was  as  far 
as  he  got.    I  did  not  expect  it  and  turned  pale. 

"Minza,  will  you  love  me.^*"  he  continued, 
slipping  his  arm  about  my  waist. 

I  pushed  it  away  and  turned  paler.  Had  I 
been  a  flirt?  Poor  Tim's  face  was  before  me, 
but  Robert's  dark  eyes  flashed  Love.  I  gave 
no  answer.    He  pressed  my  hand. 

"My  life  is  yours,  Minza." 

We  went  to  the  societj^  rooms,  where  I  was 


104  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

to  sing.  It  was  not  a  love  song,  or  one  fitted 
to  express  sentiment,  but  Robert  followed  me 
closely  with  his  ej'es,  and  my  voice  quivered. 

"She  must  be  ill  tonight,"  I  heard  them  say 
as  I  passed  out. 

"Take  me  home,  Robert,"  I  pleaded.  His 
eyes  seemed  to  pierce  me  deeper  than  ever. 
I  gave  him  no  answer,  but  he  kissed  me. 

Was  I  a  coquette? 

"Minza,  don't  trifle.  Marry  for  love — don't 
flirt — and  remember  how  I  love  you,"  and 
he  gave  me  that  self-reliant  and  reckless  look 
which  I  so  much  admired.  Schoolgirls  some- 
times take  these  matters  very  seriously.  Here 
was  I  with  two  lovers,  and  not  yet  sixteen! 

A  religious  revival  was  in  progress,  and  many 
students  were  "converted"  or  born  again. 
The  singing  was  very  effective,  and  the  influ- 
ence of  the  young  ladies  undoubtedly  caused 
many  of  the  young  men  to  declare  their  accept- 
ance of  the  better  way,  and  it  was  a  noble  and 
earnest  revival  of  religious  feeling. 

I  did  not  believe  in  a  public  profession  of 
faith  and  was  looked  upon  as  a  very  wicked 
girl.     Robert,  on  the  other  hand,  often  led  at 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  105 

prayer-meetings,  and  was  always  eloquent  in 
his  pleadings  and  exhortations!  It  worried 
him  because  I  was  not  active  in  these  matters, 
and  later  I  gave  him  my  religious  views  in  detail. 

On  the  college  bulletin  boards  in  a  glass 
case,  near  the  main  entrance,  was  the  program 
of  the  "Joint  Public"  to  be  given  by  the  Philo- 
mathean  and  Galatean  Societies.  My  name  was 
there;  I  liked  to  see  it  there.  These  Publics 
were  the  great  events  of  the  term. 

At  the  coming  Public  I  was  to  sing,  and 
Robert  was  to  deliver  an  oration  as  the  repre- 
sentative of  the  Galatean  Society.  The  large 
auditorium  was  thronged.  My  song  was  a 
beautiful  piece  of  plaintive  music  replete  with 
minor  chords — "Tliere  is  no  hope  bej'ond."  I 
did  not  think  especially  of  the  sentiment  con- 
vej'ed  by  the  words,  as  the  music  itself  was 
really  beautiful.  My  solo  preceded  Robert's 
oration.  When  I  finished  I  saw  that  it  had 
brought  a  frown  to  the  faces  of  the  professors 
in  the  front  seats,  "but  Robert's  pure  high- 
minded  religious  ideas  will  please  them," 
thought  I.     His  clear  voice  rang  out: 

"I  am  not  a  believer  in  lip-service  religion 


106  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

and  in  emotional  revivals,  and  will  not  serve 
as  a  minister  to  God  until  I  have  felt  a  special 
call  to  his  service.  I  believe  in  my  God  and 
Saviour,  but  a  too  common  profession  of  reli- 
gion— putting  it  on  and  off  like  a  cloak — 
destroys  its  sacredness." 

Horrors!  His  words  fell  like  a  bombshell. 
He  had  expressed  my  sentiments,  and  how  I 
wished  I  had  never  uttered  them. 

The  cloud  darkened,  for  his  oration,  with 
its  innocent  title,  "Hell  and  Hypocrisy,"  which 
was  supposed  to  be  a  learned  theological  argu- 
ment, had  passed  through  the  professors' 
hands  without  reading.  He  was  just  at  that 
age  when  a  college  student  will  approach  any 
subject  for  his  oration  and  swing  the  world 
above  his  head. 

His  oration  and  my  song  were  the  talk  and 
scandal  of  the  week.  We  expected  to  be  tried 
and  convicted  by  the  faculty  and  reprimanded 
in  chapel.  Linked  together  in  offence,  we  natu- 
rally drifted  together  in  sympathy  with  each 
other. 

The  next  week  Professor  Garlem  called  us 
into  his  room,  No.  14. 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  107 

"Miss  Maxwell,  for  the  safety  of  the  young 
minds  in  our  care,  and  the  religious  institu- 
tions this  college  represents,  it  has  been  decided 
that  you  and  Mr.  Burnette  are  to  retire  for 
one  term  at  least.  There  are  only  two  weeks 
more  of  the  present  term,  and  it  need  not  be 
known^ — " 

"It  will  be  known!"  flashed  out  Robert. 
"Your  bigotr}'  in  trying  to  contract  and  narrow 
our  minds  to  a  single  religious  belief  is  a  dis- 
grace.    Freedom  of  thought — " 

"Never  mind  now;  this  has  been  decided 
upon,"  said  Professor  Garlem  firmly. 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  I  responded  with  bitter 
sarcasm. 

"This  girl  is  innocent,  sir,"  said  Robert 
warmly.  "I  am  the  culprit,  and  you  are  cow- 
ards to  visit  upon  her  my  humiliation." 

"Be  cool,  Mr.  Burnette,"  replied  the  Pro- 
fessor, "it  may  all  be  for  the  best.  We  bear  no 
malice." 

"No,"  retorted  Robert  warmly,  "nor  sincere 
love  of  humanity  either." 

Of  course  I  cried  that  night.  Robert  tried 
to  comfort  me  as  he  carried  up  his  wood,  and 


108  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

I  stood  on  the  stairs  talking  to  him  until  Miss 
Booker  ordered  me  to  mv  room. 

One  term  at  college  and  suspended!  It  stung 
my  pride!  How  could  I  tell  my  mother?  Rob- 
ert now  seemed  to  have  claims  on  me,  and  I 
could  not  help  admiring  his  pluck. 

"Minza,"  he  said,  "I  am  going  to  be  a 
newspaper  man — going  to  Dakota — it's  boom- 
ing;   when  I  am  settled  we'll  be  married." 

"I  am  only  sixteen,"  I  murmured  brokenly, 
"besides,   my   mother — " 

"Well,  we'll  see,"  he  replied  confidently. 

An  effort  was  made  to  keep  the  expulsion 
quiet,  but,  like  all  State  secrets,  it  oozed  through 
the  keyholes  or  somewhere,  and  all  the  students 
knew  of  it. 

Robert  and  I  stood  on  the  rear  platform  of 
the  train  when  we  left  Cornwell  and  watched 
the  old  chapel,  the  "Sem"  and  Nunnery  fade 
from  view.  We  were  sad,  for,  although  in  one 
way  we  were  not  sorry  to  leave,  yet  there  was 
a  feeling  of  banishment  about  it  all. 

I  reached  home  with  a  heavy  heart  and  told 
mother  everything.  She,  of  course,  called 
them  "stupids,"  and  said  I  was  right;   but  she 


THE   MIXOR   CHORD  109 

did  not  like  the  idea  of  this  Robert  Burnette 
being  associated  with  nif  in  this  public  way. 

"Where  does  he  live?"  asked  mother. 

"At  Shelbyville,"  I  replied  absently. 

"That  is  where  Tim  has  gone,"  continued 
mother,  and  she  looked  at  me  a  little  quizzi- 
cally, for  the  school  gossip  had  not  altogether 
escaped  her. 

I  retired,  weary  and  anxious,  but  for  a  long 
time  I  could  not  sleep.  Robert's  masterful 
wooing  had  certainly  made  me  forget  my  boyish 
school  sweetheart.  Would  he  learn  of  it  now 
and  quarrel  with  his  rival,  or  denounce  me  as 
fickle  and  unfaithful,  as  indeed  I  was.^ 


CHAPTER  XIII 

The  First  Break  in  the  Circle 

NATURALLY  there  was  a  good  deal  of 
gossip  current  at  Smithville  concerning 
my  return  from  college,  but  it  proved 
fortunate,  in  several  ways.  Father  finished 
collecting  in  February,  and  mother,  with  her 
teaching  and  three  babies,  left  me  quite  enough 
to  do. 

It  was  in  midwinter  that  baby  Tod  was  taken 
ill  with  inflammation  of  the  lungs.  I  was  his 
nurse,  and  either  mother  or  I  was  always  at 
his  bedside.  With  a  suffering  baby,  you  cannot 
locate  the  ailment  or  know  always  what  to  do. 
It  is  a  pitiable  sight  to  see  a  mother  wearing 
herself  out  and  unable  to  help  her  suffering 
child. 

How  vividly  I  recall  that  illness!  Through 
the  long  dismal  afternoons  I  often  made  holes 
through  the  frost  on  the  window  pane  and 
watched  for  the  doctor.  What  a  comfort  it 
was  to  see  his  portly  form  coming  around  the 

110 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  111 

corner!  The  crisis  was  not  passed  with  Tod 
when  Joe  began  to  compUiin.  His  illness  did 
not  seem  to  be  serious,  and  father  tucked  him 
in  bed  with  the  joking  remark,  "We  shall  soon 
have  quite  a  hospital."  Suddenly  I  noticed 
Joe  coughing  severely,  and  he  seemed  to  be 
wilting  away. 

"Send  for  the  doctor,  quick!"  I  cried  to 
father. 

Mother  was  soon  there;  the  little  heart  was 
just  beating.     "He's  in  a  fit,"  she  cried. 

The  doctor  arrived.  "Oh,  he  will  pull  through 
all  right,"  he  said  hopefully,  as  he  measured 
out  some  powders  in  a  paper  and  labelled  them 
"One  every  hour." 

How  long  that  night  seemed  as  mother  and 
I  watched  over  two  baby  cots!  Little  Joe  was 
now  in  danger.  At  midnight  the  dear  little 
limbs  writhed  in  another  convulsion. 

The  alarm  was  given,  and  kind  neighbors 
soon  came  in  but  could  do  nothing  to  save  him. 

Father  was  kneeling  at  the  bedside,  still 
chafing  the  little  one's  feet;  mother  felt  his 
pulse,  but  the  tiny  heart  had  ceased  to  beat,  and 
little  Joe  was  dead. 


112  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

Have  you  ever  felt  that  first  stifling  flood  of 
grief  for  the  loved  and  lost?  I  thought  God 
was  cruel  and  had  punished  me  for  my  wicked- 
ness at  Corn  well. 

Toward  morning,  worn  out,  I  threw  myself  on 
my  bed  and  cried  out,  "Shall  I  never  see  little 
Joe  any  more?    Is  he  dead?    No,  it  cannot  be." 

In  my  restless  sleep  I  dreamed  that  little 
Joe  and  I  were  playing  together  at  the  old 
limekiln,  with  the  waves  washing  upon  the 
white  stones.  Then  Christ,  bright  and  radiant, 
clothed  in  snowy  raiment,  called  us  to  him, 
and  we  floated  up  into  the  blue  empyrean, 
ever  growing  more  glorious  as  we  drew  near 
the  eternal  source  of  life  and  light.  A  throng 
of  glorified  beings  suddenly  poured  out  of  the 
ether  and  across  the  stainless  pavements  of 
the  Holy  City;  a  wonderful  chorus  swelled 
and  strengthened  as  they  drew  near — "Glory 
to  God  in  the  highest."  But  when  I  awoke  I 
could  not  realize  the  truth. 

"Joe,  little  Joe!"  I  cried  out  wildly  in  my 
grief  and,  in  fancy,  from  heaven  I  seemed  to 
hear  his  childish  voice  calling,  "Minza's  coming, 
too." 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  113 

One  never  likes  to  acknowledge  family  pref- 
erences, but  little  Joe  had  always  been  my 
favorite.  Oh,  I  loved  him  so,  and  now  he  was 
taken  from  me  forever.  I  tried  to  comfort 
mother,  but  her  grief  was  too  deep  to  reach 
with   words. 

Oh,  that  last  kiss  of  our  dead!  Into  what 
household  has  it  not  entered?  It  is  this  last 
parting  caress  that  breaks  the  mother's  heart, 
when  she  thinks  of  her  child  in  the  cold  and 
lonely  grave.  It  is  when  the  lid  is  last  sealed 
that  the  mother's  heart-fountains  burst  forth. 

For  months  after  I  could  not  visit  little  Joe's 
grave.  Mother  and  father  used  to  go  every 
Sunday  with  flowers,  but  I  could  not  bear  to. 
I  could  gaze  on  the  enlarged  picture  in  the 
parlor,  and  the  sweet  baby  eyes  that  looked 
down  upon  me — mother's  own  eyes — but  I 
always  thought  of  that  midnight  vision  in  which 
I  seemed  to  see  his  glorified  form  ascending 
the  stairs  of  living  light  and  joining  the  num- 
berless multitude  of  the  hosts  of  heaven. 

Time  may  wear  away  the  pangs,  the  parox- 
ysms of  grief,  but  today  my  heart  is  touched 
and  purified  by  its  tender  memories  of  little 


114  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

Joe,  and  I  love  to  lay  my  own  gift  of  flowers 
upon  that  little  grave,  and  to  think  that  when 
life's  fever  is  over  I  shall  peacefully  lie  beside 
the  little  form  I  loved  so  well. 

Life's  first  real  grief  and  greatest  bereave- 
ment had  sounded  for  me  another  and  deeper 
Minor  Chord. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

Father's  Belated  Pension  Arrives 

THE  spring  brought  no  new  resources  to 
father,  whose  health  remained  poor, 
and  now  grief  and  worry  began  to 
undermine  mother's  strength.  One  day  Dr. 
Waddington  called  and  looked  over  his  spec- 
tacles inquiringly  at  father. 

"Robert,  were  you  in  the  army?" 

**Yes,  42d  Volunteers." 

"Were  you  ever  wounded?" 

"Several  times — at  Vicksburg  and  Shiloh." 

"I  thought  so.  Do  you  know  I  think  you 
are  suffering  from  those  wounds  today?" 

"Tut,  tut,  man,  I  got  over  it  and  am  as  well 
and  strong  as  ever." 

"Oh,  of  course,"  replied  the  Doctor  sarcasti- 
cally. "But  you  come  to  the  office  and  let  me 
make  an  examination." 

That  afternoon  father  went  down  and  the 
doctor  found  that  the  old  wounds,  although 
ostensibly  healed,  were  still  working  mischief. 

115 


116  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

Dr.  Waddington  came  up  to  our  house  late 
in  the  evening,  very  much  upset.  He  took 
off  his  worn  silk  hat  and  excitedly  wiped  his 
bald  head. 

"Mrs.  Maxwell,"  he  demanded,  "can't  you 
put  some  sense  into  that  man's  head?" 

"How's  that,  Doctor.?" 

"Robert  deserves  a  pension  for  his  army  ser- 
vice, and  not  only  that,  but  back  pay  as  well." 

"Yes,"  she  replied  soberly,  "but.  Doctor,  you 
cannot  get  a  pension  without  political  influ- 
ence, and  you  know  Robert  is  not  much  of  a 
politician." 

"Well,  that  may  be,"  admitted  the  Doctor, 
"but  it's  worth  trying  for." 

"All  right,  he'll  do  it."  When  mother  said 
so,  that  settled  it. 

The  application  was  made,  and  the  necessary 
evidence  of  service,  discharge,  etc.,  sent  to  the 
young  Congressman  representing  our  district. 
He  replied  promptly,  stating  that  he  remem- 
bered meeting  father,  and  would  "give  the 
matter  immediate  and  personal  attention." 

I'm  afraid  that  the  phrase  must  have  been 
a   little   overworked   by   lowan   Congressmen, 


THE  IVnNOR  CHORD  117 

for  it  did  not  seem  to  awaken  implicit  confi- 
dence in  the  hearts  of  our  parents. 

"That's  the  way  he  writes  to  all  of  them," 
said  neighbor  Sally  Smith  ironically. 

We  thought  little  of  the  matter  until  one 
morning  while  I  was  helping  father  with  the 
housework,  and  mother  was  busy  giving  a 
lesson,  a  telegram  was  handed  to  me. 

"This  must  be  a  mistake,  I  don't  receive 
telegrams,"  I  said  to  the  messenger. 

"No,  it  isn't;  I  knows  my  business,"  he 
answered  saucily. 

There  it  was,  addressed :  "Minza  Maxwell." 

I  tore  it  open  hastily.  It  was  dated  "Wash- 
ington, D.  C,"  and  read  as  follows: 

"Your  father's  pension  and  back  pay  granted. 
Letter  follows.     Congratulations. 

"Thomas  Bayling,  M.  C, 

"Per  Tm,  Secyr 

"Tim!  Could  it  be  Tim  Rathbone?"  I  said 
excitedly. 

"It  seems  we  have  a  friend  at  court,"  said 
mother  smiling. 

Impatiently  we  waited  for  that  letter.  Father 
insisted  that  he  could  hardly  believe  the  news. 


118  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

and  even  mother  did  not  seem  to  have  much 
confidence  in  the  telegraphic  information. 

During  the  next  week  a  bulky  envelope 
came  in  a  letter  marked  "OflBcial  Business." 
Inside  were  numerous  blank  forms  to  fill,  and 
a  statement  that  "Robert  Maxwell,  Co.  M., 
42d  Iowa  Volunteers,  is  granted  a  pension  of 
six  dollars  per  month  and  back  pay  amounting 
to   $1,276.60." 

It  seemed  too  good  to  be  true,  for,  as  if  bj' 
magic,  the  spectre  of  want  and  sickness  disap- 
peared, and  father  was  again  able  to  care  for 
his  family.  That  evening  we  were  busy  plan- 
ning what  to  do  with  the  money. 

"It  seems  so  heavenly,"  I  cried  and  went 
to  the  piano  and  played  the  gayest  waltz  I 
knew.  Then  I  hugged  my  violin  and  galloped 
off  a  mazurka.  It  was  such  a  relief  to  know 
that  for  a  while  at  least  my  dear  parents  could 
have  the  needed  rest  and  recuperation  that  was 
so  necessary  to  their  well-being. 

The  family  council  lasted  long  into  the  night. 
Mother  wanted  to  use  the  money  to  complete 
my  musical  studies  and  father  agreed.  At  first 
I  wanted  to  re-invest  it  in  a  business,  but  when 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  119 

I  surveyed  mother's  poor  wan  face  a  suggestion 
occurred  to  me. 

"Mother,"  I  burst  out,  "you  and  father 
must  start  next  week  for  England  and  visit 
dear  old  grandpa.  It  will  do  you  good  and 
break — " 

"No,  no,  dear,  we  cannot  think  of  it.  You 
must  complete  your  studies,"  said  mother 
quickly. 

"First,  Helen,  we  must  pay  our  debts — 
that  one  thousand  dollars,"  interposed  father. 

"Now,  Robert,  let  me  handle  this  matter. 
This  money  shall  not  pay  a  penny  of  that 
debt,"  said  mother  firmly. 

"But  is  it  honest.^"  protested  father.  "What 
will  people  say?" 

"Never  mind,  let  me  manage  that,"  and 
mother  managed  it. 

It  was  finally  settled  that  Jimmy  was  to 
remain  with  me  and  mother  and  father  with 
little  Tod  were  to  start  the  following  week 
to  visit  the  scenes  of  father's  childhood  in  dear 
old  England. 

Here,  again,  was  the  breaking  of  home  ties, 
and   although  I   was  enthusiastic  about  their 


120  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

going,  it  was  hard  to  part  with  them  and  to 
know  that  the  wide  Atlantic  must  roll  between 

us. 

Nevertheless  I  was  really  glad  to  have  them 
go,  and  nothing  in  the  world  would  have  tempted 
me  to  dissuade  them,  but  I  had  a  passionate  love 
of  home  and  family  ties  that  was  little  short 
of  morbid  in  its  intensity,  and  it  has  seemed 
the  very  irony  of  fate  that  I,  who  would  have 
been  well  content  to  lead  a  simple  home  life 
in  a  quiet  western  town,  to  marry  in  a  com- 
monplace, unobtrusive  way  and  settle  down 
near  my  father's  house,  to  build  up  a  like 
home  of  my  own,  should  have  formed  and 
cherished  a  musical  ambition  which  has  led 
me  thousands  of  miles  away  and  years  apart 
from  my  loved  ones. 

The  midnight  train  for  Chicago  was  to 
take  them  away.  We  tried  to  be  cheerful  that 
evening,  but  our  faces  reflected  serious  fore- 
bodings. At  the  last  all  was  bustle  and  hurry, 
the  loving  advice  of  motherly  care  and  oft- 
repeated  parting  kisses.  Little  Tod  chattered 
with  delight  and  was  forever  in  the  way,  and 
Jimmy  cried,  while  the  'bus  stood  waiting. 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  121 

It  was  May,  and  the  lilacs  and  snowballs 
were  in  bloom,  their  fragrance  filling  the  air, 
but  the  next  day  the  old  home  seemed  desolate. 
Jimmy  kept  me  busy  and  was  soon  off  to  school. 
It  is  always  those  left  at  home  who  most  keenly 
feel  the  pangs  of  parting. 

How  anxiously  I  watched  the  newspapers 
for  the  arrival  of  the  steamer!  It  w^as  overdue, 
and  I  pictured  a  shipwreck  in  mid-ocean, 
greatlj^  upsetting  the  nervous  Angela,  who  was 
staying  with  me. 

One  day  Angela  came  running  toward  the 
house  from  the  village  post-office.  "It's  there, 
it's  there!"  she  cried  far  down  the  street,  and  a 
heavy  load  was  lifted  from  our  hearts.  I  kissed 
Jim's  jam-covered  face  over  and  over  again. 
The  steamer  had  reached  Southampton. 

They  were  to  be  gone  three  months,  and  it 
seemed  like  a  century.  In  the  meantime 
Robert's  letters  arrived  frequently.  He  was  a 
hard-headed,  practical,  businesslike  fellow,  and 
always  wrote  sensibly.  A  few  weeks  later  a 
short  note  from  Tim  announced  that  he  would 
return  to  Smithville  for  a  short  vacation  the 
following  week. 


122  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

Here  was  a  dilemma! 

I  told  Angela  all  about  it  and  insisted  that 
she  must  take  one  of  my  lovers  off  my  hands. 

"Which  one?"  she  asked. 

"It  doesn't  matter,"  I  replied  despe'^ately, 
for  I  felt  so  grateful  for  the  unexpected  pension 
payments  that  Tim  seemed  to  have  greater 
claims  on  me  now,  if  we  did  quarrel  in  our  let- 
ters, and  had,  indeed,  ceased  correspondence 
until  the  pension  telegram  was  received. 

Then,  too,  he  was  my  first  sweetheart, 
although  Robert  seemed  to  be  taking  matters 
for  granted. 

The  next  week  I  was  reading  one  of  Robert's 
long  letters  when  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door. 

It  was  Tim  Rathbone,  and  before  I  could 
recover  from  my  momentary  confusion  he 
kissed  me.  When  I  found  my  tongue,  I  tried 
to  thank  him  for  his  kindly  interest  on  behalf 
of  father's  pension. 

"Don't  mention  it,  Meg,"  he  repHed,  "let's 
take  a  walk  down  to  the  old  limekiln.  Yes, 
bring  Jimmy  along,  if  you  will,"  and  we  went 
down  to  the  ruined  arch  and  shadowed  road- 
side. 


r 


^'j^.^^U      ,^- 


i:/ 


'Oh,  you're  too  big  now.     Besides,    Tim,  you've — youve  got  a 

mustache" 


THE   MINOR   CHORD  123 

"Minza,"  said  Tim,  when  Jimmy  was  at  a 
safe  distance,  "you  are  growing  beautiful. 
Do  you  still  sing?" 

"A  little,  to  put  the  baby  to  sleep.  Don't 
I,  Jimkins?"  I  said,  appealing  to  the  young 
rascal,  but  he  was  out  of  hearing. 

"I'll  be  Tod,  Meg— please!" 

"Oh,  you're  too  big  now.  Besides,  Tim, 
you've — you've  got  a  moustache." 

"Don't  you  remember,  Meg,  that  that  was 
my  greatest  ambition  as  a  boy?  When  I  had 
a  moustache  like  Judge  Buggins,  then — hullo 
— who's  coming?" 

Down  from  the  house  came  Fred  Burroughes, 
tall,  neatly  garbed,  and  genial  as  ever. 

"That,"  said  I,  "is  Mr.  Burroughes,  my 
friend." 

"Ah,  Mr.  Burroughes,  your  friend,  is  it?" 
said  Tim  sourlv. 

I  advanced  to  meet  him,  and  when  he  bent 
to  kiss  me,  I  shrank  back  and  looked  at  Tim 
Rathbone,  who  did  not  seem  pleased  at  Mr. 
Burroughes'  familiarity. 

"Why,  Minza,  what's  the  matter,  little  one?" 
said  Fred  Burroughes. 


124  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

I  could  not  answer.  Those  deep  blue  eyes 
seemed  to  express  his  pain  and  read  my 
thoughts. 

"Well,  I'll  not  bother  you,"  he  said,  and 
started  to  go. 

"Mr.  Rathbone,"  said  I,  introducing  them, 
"this  is  Mr.  Burroughes — Mr.  Burroughes, 
Mr.  Rathbone."  They  bowed  stiffly  and 
Fred  left  us,  and  although  I  called  after  him, 
he  was  soon  out  of  hearing.  However,  he  came 
to  the  house  later,  and  with  the  help  of  Angela 
we  spent  a  pleasant  afternoon  with  our  music. 

Like  all  young  people,  Tim  Rathbone  and 
I  had  an  occasional  "spat"  or  quarrel,  as  persons 
do  who  know  each  other  well.  It  is  human 
nature  for  even  lovers  to  wear  off  the  rough 
edges  of  temper  on  one  another.  As  my 
housework  took  a  great  deal  of  mj^  time,  An- 
gela and  Tim  were  thrown  together  more  than 
I  really  liked,  although  I  had  asked  her,  as  my 
younger  sister,  to  entertain  him,  and  had 
really  abdicated  in  her  favor,  if  she  chose  to 
seek  his  affections.  I  liked  Fred  Burroughes, 
I  was  grateful  to  Tim  Rathbone,  and  did  not 
know  how  to  resist  Robert  Burnette's  master- 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  125 

fill  wooing,  and  yet  I  did  not  want  to  marry 
any  of  them.  Nevertheless  I  am  sure  I  should 
have  been  bitterly  jealous  of  any  other  woman 
who  married  any  of  the  three,  and  would 
always  have  brooded  more  or  less  over  a  dissi- 
pated love-dream.  Do  you  wonder  that  young 
girls  make  mistakes  in  a  maelstrom  of  wooing? 

The  day  before  July  4,  when  the  village  was 
preparing  for  one  of  the  real  old-fashioned 
celebrations  of  our  national  birthday,  I  wan- 
dered with  Jimmy  through  the  grove  to  the 
limekiln. 

The  lemonade  booths  covered  with  boughs 
and  the  different  amusement  tents  and  shooting 
galleries  were  set  up,  and  the  speakers'  platform 
looked  very  imposing.  Tim  Rathbone  was  to 
read  the  Declaration  of  Independence  and  I 
was  to  sing  "Hail  Columbia!"  I  thought  how 
handsome  he  would  look  with  his  curly  hair, 
and  I  pictured  him  in  the  future  as  a  great  states- 
man. The  village  brass  band  were  holding 
their  last  rehearsal  in  the  Town  Hall,  and  the 
tuba  bass  solo  and  alto  horns  were  nearly  rais- 
ing the  roof.  The  sky  was  clear,  and  the 
setting  sun  behind  the  purple  grove  was  sending 


126  THE   MINOR  CHORD 

up  lances  of  sunshine  from  the  foliage  that 
lined  the  horizon.  It  was  to  be  a  typical 
spread-eagle  American  Fourth  of  July,  and  the 
British  lion's  tail  was  to  be  properly  twisted. 

I  was  happy  just  then,  but  somehow  I  felt 
like  teasing — and  I  teased  Tim  Rathbone  all 
the  evening.  He  tried  to  be  serious  and  to  talk 
with  me  alone,  but  I  showed  him  Bob's  photo- 
graph and  talked  of  my  life  at  Cornwell  and  of 
how  good  INIr.  Burroughes  had  been.  Tim 
took  Angela  home,  and  left  me  in  a  very  bad 
humor. 

And  I  was  wayward  and  thoughtless,  for 
my  love  for  Tim  had  been  a  girl's  light  fancy, 
while  his  was  a  fiercer  and  more  exacting 
passion.  He  had  dealt  with  mature  men 
and  women,  even  the  statesmen  and  lobbyists 
at  Washington,  and  I  could  not  feel,  as  he  did, 
the  serious  and  all-important  ties  which  I, 
at  least,  had  so  lightly  formed.  I  have  blamed 
myself  much  for  my  waywardness  that  night, 
but  as  I  look  back  I  cannot  but  feel  that  Tim 
was  more  to  blame  than  I.  I  owed  much  to 
Fred  Burroughes,  who,  without  my  knowledge, 
had  helped  my  parents  to  defray  my  earlier 


THE   MINOR   CHORD  127 

musical  training,  and  my  childish  admiration 
and  later  gratitude  were  only  his  due. 

Bob  Burnette  in  his  powerful  way  had,  as  it 
were,  taken  by  storm  and  for  granted  my 
tacit  consent  to  a  betrothal  that  was  made 
more  romantic  by  a  common  sense  of  injustice 
at  the  hands  of  the  Cornwell  faculty,  and  Tim 
was  too  jealous  to  do  justice  to  either  or  to  be 
forbearing  to  me.  To  both  of  us  it  brought 
great  sorrow,  for  I  could  never  quite  forget  the 
generous  and  kindly  boy  who  first  awoke  in 
my  girlish  heart  the  magical  flame  of  the 
divine  passion. 


CHAPTER  XV 

The  Glorious  Fourth 

THE  festivities  of  Independence  Day  began 
with  the  booming  of  cannon  and  the 
snapping  of  fire  crackers.  The  parade 
was  imposing,  and  Angela  was  charming  as 
"Columbia"  in  a  float  surrounded  by  thirty- 
seven  little  girls,  each  representing  one  of  the 
states.  The  exercises  passed  off  smoothly.  Tim 
Rathbone  was  applauded  to  the  echo,  but  we 
had  scarcely  spoken  to  each  other  all  day. 

That  evening  a  company  of  young  friends 
sat  with  me  on  the  veranda  watching  the  fire- 
works; at  last  the  closing  piece  of  the  display, 
a  "Good-Night"  emblazoned  in  a  five-colored 
wheel,  burst  forth.  Two  figures  came  down 
the  path— Angela  and  Tim. 

"Where  have  you  naughty  folks  been?"  I 
asked  jokingly. 

"We've  been  married,"  spoke  up  Tim, 
defiantly. 

"Yes,   I  guess   so,"   said  Nettie  Rand   flip- 

128 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  129 

pantly.  She  was  a  tall  black-browed  "Irish 
blonde,"  who  had  been  more  than  noticeably 
attentive  to  Tim  herself;  but  I  saw  her  dark 
face  whiten,  even  in  the  dim  light  of  the  Jap- 
anese   transparencies. 

My  guests  seemed  to  feel  the  sudden  check 
to  the  tide  of  patriotic  gayety.  The  brilliant 
fireworks  were  blackened  cases  and  shattered 
bombs;  the  gay  lanterns  were  dying  out;  and 
weary  and  powder-burned  children  were  crying 
as  their  tired  parents  hastened  home.  The 
joyous  little  party  paired  off,  and  with  half 
incredulous  and  half -whispered  congratula- 
tions to  the  young  couple,  said  good-night 
to  me. 

It  was  a  blow  which  staggered  me.  I  thought 
they  were  joking,  and  kissed  Angela;  but 
another  glance  at  Tim's  face  told  me  that  they 
were,  indeed,  man  and  wife.  I  turned  to  go  into 
the   house. 

"Good-night,"  I  gasped. 

"Why,  Meg,  won't  you  congratulate  me?" 
pleaded  Angela  innocently.  She  had  taken 
me  at  my  word  and  married  one  of  my  lovers. 

It  was  a  great  blow,  for  although  it  had  been 


130  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

a  girlish  fancj'  rather  than  a  deep  and  abiding 
passion,  I  had  really  loved  my  old,  light- 
hearted,  generous  playmate.  Now  that  he 
was  taken  out  of  my  life  forever,  I  thought 
that  my  heart  was  broken.  "Alone,  alone," 
seemed  the  solemn  minor  burden  of  the  night 
breezes  as  I  entered  the  silent  darkness  of  my 
almost  deserted  home. 

"Love,  love,  what  wilt  thou  with  this  heart  of 

mine? 
Naught  see  I  fixed  or  sure  in  thee! 
I  do  not  know  thee — nor  what  deeds  are  thine ; 
Love,  love,  what  wilt  thou  with  this  heart  of 

mine? 
Naught  see  I  permanent  or  sure  in  thee!" 

When  I  awoke  the  next  morning  I  again 
thought  it  surely  must  be  a  joke  that  they  had 
played  upon  me,  but  their  marriage  was  only 
too  true. 

A  large  number  of  American  marriages 
originate  from  motives  of  pique  or  loneliness 
rather  than  from  love.  We  seldom  marry  our 
real  sweethearts.  Love!  What  is  love?  Cer- 
tainly it  has  never  yet  been  analyzed  in  words. 
But  when  Tim  was  beyond  my  reach  I  thought 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  131 

I  loved  him,  and  especially  when  I  fancied  he 
had  married  Angela  out  of  spite  toward  me. 

That  night  I  was  ready  to  offer  myself  as  a 
foreign  missionary  to  go  among  the  heathen, 
but  a  day  or  so  before  I  expected  father  and 
mother  to  return,  Robert  Burnette  made  his 
appearance,  as  self-reliant,  conceited  and  ener- 
getic as  ever. 

He  kissed  me  coolly  and  said  that  he  had 
been  arranging  to  start  a  newspaper  in  Dakota. 

"Will  you  be  my  assistant  editor?"  he  asked 
calmly,  puffing  at  his  cigar. 

"That's   scarcely   romantic,"   I   insisted. 

"No,  but  it's  business.  Minza,  there's  no 
foolishness  about  me.  I  am  in  dead  earnest. 
You're  my  only  hope  in  life;  will  you  be  my 
wife?  That  rhymes,  although  such  was  not 
my  intention.  It's  not  a  great  distinction,  but 
then — "  and  his  voice  died  away,  as  if  in 
thought. 

There  was  nothing  impulsive  about  it,  and 
it  was,  I  fear,  chiefly  the  memory  of  Tim's 
defiant  look  that  decided  me. 

"Yes,"  I  said,  and  he  kissed  me  without 
urther  argument. 


132  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

Of  course  it  was  not  such  a  courtship  as  I 
had  dreamed  of,  but  I  knew  that  Robert 
loved  his  mother,  was  kind,  pure  and  noble 
in  heart,  and  I  gave  him  my  hand  while  still 
wounded  by  the  loss  of  my  boy  lover. 

"You  make  me  so  happy,  Minza,"  he  said, 
and  even  then  I  felt  that  he  deserved  a  stronger 
love  than  I  could  bestow  upon  him.  I  have 
no  excuses  to  offer,  but  be  sure  that  all  such 
errors  and  failures  in  the  service  of  love  bring 
their  own  avenging. 

Father  and  mother  arrived  earlier  than  I 
had  expected,  right  in  the  middle  of  my  prepa- 
rations to  welcome  them.  What  a  happy 
meeting!  I  hugged  mother  and  little  Tod  till 
they  fairly  gasped,  and  father  looked  so  ruddy 
and  strong!  Mother,  bless  her  heart,  was 
young  again.  There  was  the  old  love-sparkle 
in  her  eyes,  the  dimples  had  come  once  more 
into  her  cheek,  and  we  were  very  happy  that 
night!  Little  Tod  had  grown  as  tall  as  Jimmy 
and  was  as  saucy  as  a  parrot. 

That  evening  was  a  happy  one  as  the  re- 
united family  gathered  around  the  center  table 
and  talked  of  their  several  experiences  at  home 


THE   MINOR   CHORD  133 

and  abroad.  We  had  French  bonbons,  EngHsh 
biscuits,  and  East  Indian  sweetmeats  sent  us 
by  our  English  relations  and  purchased  by 
father,  whose  face  glowed  with  new  hope  and 
animation.  I  played  and  sang  as  he  gathered 
the  boys  in  his  strong  arms,  and  mother,  too, 
sang  many  of  her  old  songs. 

"There,  Meggie,  is  Helen  Martin  when  a 
lonely  young  Englishman  fell  in  love  with 
her,"  father  remarked,  looking  at  her  fondly. 

"Oh,  the  hallowed  glow  of  a  happy  heart! 
Nor  wealth  nor  fame  can  banish  its  lustre." 

Such  a  busy  time  mother  and  I  had  talking! 
She  told  me  of  Paris,  of  the  Crystal  Palace,  of 
Covent  Garden,  and  inspired  me  still  further 
with  that  great  ambition  which  I  could  never 
resist — to  be  a  prima  donna. 

Her  trunk  was  full  of  little  presents  for  us 
all,  and  a  generous  supply  of  guidebooks, 
photos  and  souvenirs.  The  pension  arrears 
was  almost  wholly  spent,  and  we  were  still 
one  thousand  dollars  in  debt,  but  father  and 
mother  had  taken  a  new  lease  of  life  and  we 
were  happy. 


134  THE   MINOR   CHORD 

Mother  was  soon  actively  at  work  organizing 
new  music  classes,  and  having  "been  abroad," 
pupils  poured  in  upon  her. 

"Now,  my  Minza  must  study  to  go  abroad, 
too,"  said  mother  enthusiastically  one  day. 

"No,  mother,"  I  demurred,  "you  must  not 
sacrifice  yourself  for  me.  You  have  done  too 
much  for  me  already." 

"But,  my  child,  j^our  voice,  when  cultivated, 
will  bring  you  fortune  and  fame." 

"I  want  neither,  now  we  are  happy;  besides 
— besides — I'm — I'm — going    to    be    married!" 

"Minza!"  gasped  mother,  "you  do  not  mean 
it.  O  Minza!  how  could  you  do  it,  and  not 
let  me  know?    Cannot  it  be — " 

"Mamma,  it  is  settled,"  I  replied. 

Father  came  in  just  then,  having  overheard 
our  conversation.  He  seemed  unable  to  believe 
his  own  ears.  "My  little  girl,  only  seventeen, 
and  talking  of  being  married!" 

"Who  can  it  be,  then.^*"  said  mother,  almost 
harshly.  "It  cannot  be  Fred  Burroughes,  for  he 
is  too  old  to  fall  in  love  with  a  child  like  you." 

"No,  mother,  it's  Robert  Burnette,  the 
dearest,  best  fellow  on  earth.    You'll  love  him, 


THE   .MINOR   CHORD  135 

and  he'll  soon  pay  that  one  thousand  dollars," 
I  continued,  trying  to  be  enthusiastic  over  my 
approaching   marriage. 

"My  daughter,"  demanded  mother  sternly, 
"have  you  sold  yourself  again  for  us?" 

"Oh,  no,  you'll  like  Bob,  mother;  in  fact, 
you  must  like  him." 

But  she  never  did.  He  had  carried  off  her 
only  daughter  and  disappointed  the  dearest 
hopes  of  her  life,  and  to  the  day  of  her  death 
she  never  really  forgave  him. 

Bob  called  soon  after  and  father  tried  to  be 
cheerful  and  entertaining  as  became  a  pros- 
pective father-in-law;  mother  was  cold  and 
reserved,  but  she  never  remonstrated  with  me 
again. 

Poor  Bob !  I  saw  he  felt  his  ostracism,  and  I 
pitied  him  the  more,  and  admired  his  manly 
ways,  for  he  was  a  splendid  type  of  pure  man- 
hood, and  that  is  saying  a  great  deal  in  these 
days,  when  so  many  young  men,  "after  sowing 
their  wild  oats,"  finish  by  marrying  innocent 
and  ignorant  girls. 

We  were  busy  with  the  preparations  for  the 
wedding,  for  he  had  established  his  newspaper 


136  THE   MINOR  CHORD 

in  Dakota,  and  wc  were  to  be  married  in 
October  and  go  there  to  live. 

It  was  a  hard  trial  to  mother,  to  give  up 
her  daughter,  just  when  she  was  beginning 
to  find  so  much  comfort  in  our  companion- 
ship. I  could  scarcely  believe  it  to  be  true.  A 
girl  about  to  be  married  has  to  meet  untried 
the  great  problems  of  her  life  and  destiny. 

We  w^ere  to  be  wedded  in  the  village  church, 
and  the  night  before  I  wandered  down  to  the 
old  limekiln.  The  leaves  were  falling;  the  au- 
tumn foliage  enveloped  the  trees  I  loved  so  well. 
It  was  now  a  real  farewell.  I  came  to  them  as 
a  girl — tomorrow  I  stepped  into  wifehood. 

Robert  met  me  at  the  gate  when  I  returned. 

"What,  pet!  so  sad  before  your  wedding 
day.'^" 

"Yes,  you  do  not  know  what  a  girl  gives 
up  when  she  is  married,  and — " 

"Minza,"  he  said,  his  honest  eyes  looking 
deeply  into  mine,  "I  will  not  take  you  captive. 
I  love  you — my  life  is  yours — married  or  not 
married.    We  were  born  for  each  other." 

Oh,  why  didn't  he  rage,  and  fume,  and  fight, 
as  heroes  do  on  the  stage  or  in  story-books, 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  137 

when  they  are  in  love?  It  was  his  sterHng  per- 
fection that  annoyed  me — but  his  lionest, 
warm  heart  was  so  true! 

Our  minister,  the  Reverend  Mr.  Frazer, 
came  from  a  distant  "charge"  to  marry  us.  The 
ceremony  was  short,  and  our  clasped  hands 
trembled  as  the  final  words  were  pronounced. 
To  me  the  "Wedding  March,"  played  as  we 
walked  out  of  the  church,  seemed  rather  like  a 
funeral  dirge. 

At  the  wedding  supper  everyone  seemed  sad. 
Mother's  eyes  were  red,  and  she  could  scarcely 
speak,  for  mother  and  daughter  were  drifting 
— drifting  apart  at  last  and  forever. 

At  the  little  station  the  platform  was 
thronged  with  friends  to  see  us  off;  the  train 
was  an  hovu-  late,  which  made  it  rather  awkward 
for  me.  "Will  it  never  come?"  I  thought,  as  a 
curious  crowd  pushed  forward  to  "see  the 
bride." 

Neither  Tim  nor  Angela  was  there,  though 
they  had  stood  in  the  back  part  of  the  church 
during  the  ceremony;  the  friend  of  my  child- 
hood and  my  first  boyish  sweetheart!  and 
vet  no  farewell  from  either! 


138  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

A  shower  of  rice  and  old  shoes  made  the 
occupants  of  the  car  "sit  up  and  take  notice" 
as  we  entered. 

"Now,  we  won't  act  Hke  a  bridal  couple, 
will  we,  Robert?"  I  whispered. 

"No,"  he  said  heroically,  trying  to  look  as 
unconcerned  as  an  old  married  man.  But  it 
did  not  last  long.  I  soon  fell  asleep,  with  my 
head  on  his  shoulder,  dreaming  of  those  dear 
ones  at  home. 

Our  brief  honeymoon  was  chiefly  spent  on 
hurrying  trains  and  in  crowded  hotels,  for  Rob- 
ert had  sundry  preparations  and  purchases 
to  make  before  settling  down  for  the  long  and 
almost  Arctic  Dakotan  winter  in  the  Red  River 
Valley.  My  husband  was  always  consid- 
erate, kind,  and  generous  to  a  fault,  and  I 
am  sure  loved  me  alone  of  all  the  world.  He 
was  ambitious,  untiring  and  full  of  that  almost 
tropical  enthusiasm  with  which  the  pioneers 
of  Dakota  belittled  the  disadvantages  and 
apotheosized  the  beauties  and  glories  of  a  fer- 
tile, treeless,  wind-swept  and  monotonous  ocean 
of  rolling  prairie. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

Our  Pioneer  Life 

IN  ordinary  romances,  the  marriage  of  the 
pair  is  the  cHmax,  and  "they  lived  hap- 
pily' ever  after."  In  my  hfe  marriage  was 
the  real  beginning  of  life,  and  I  found  myself 
abruptly  transported  from  the  humdrum  rou- 
tine and  settled  conditions  of  lowan  village 
life  into  the  feverish  extravagances  and  ener- 
gies of  Dakotan  settlement  and  development. 
We  arrived  at  Fargo,  Dakota,  during  a 
light  snowfall,  with  the  wind  whistling  dismal 
interludes  about  the  car.  The  landscape  was 
dreary,  and  made  me  feel  homesick,  but  Bob's 
cheeriness  was  irresistible,  and  we  met  many 
of  his  acquaintances,  who  were  always  heavily 
and  sometimes  shabbily  dressed,  but  were 
invariably  full  of  enthusiastic  commendations 
of  his  own  section  of  newly-surveyed  govern- 
ment land,  or  certain  that  his  "town  site," 
principally  represented  by  a  neat  blueprint  of 
a  scientifically  plotted  quarter,  half  or  whole 

139 


140  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

section,  would  more  than  warrant  extensive 
investment.  They  sold  them,  too,  in  innum- 
erable cases,  where  there  was  nothing  but  a 
way  station,  a  wheat  elevator  and  a  few  make- 
shift shanty  oflBces  and  stores,  to  represent 
the  hotels,  churches,  schools,  engine  houses, 
public  parks  and  other  figments  of  the  pro- 
moter's imagination  duly  set  down  on  his  neatly 
folded  "plot." 

It  was  not  unfitting  that  Bob  himself  inno- 
cently spoke  of  his  "plot"  and  the  "plotting" 
thereof,  for  very  few  of  the  original  investors 
in  many  of  these  budding  cities  ever  got  their 
money   back. 

We  traveled  up  the  broad  Red  River  Valley, 
dotted  with  shanties  on  each  quarter  section 
of  land,  and  stacks  of  grain  which  looked  like 
Esquimaux  snow-houses.  We  stopped  at  many 
straggling  and  almost  deserted  little  stations, 
where  elevators  and  grain  warehouses  clustered 
about  hungry-looking  lumber  and  coal  yards, 
and  at  last  arrived  at  Boomtown.  There  were 
three  or  four  handsome  brick  buildings  and  a 
large  hotel  in  the  village.  Our  office  sign, 
"The  Weekly  Times,"  blazed  out  in  bright  gold 


THE   MINOR   CHORD  141 

letters  from  a  neat-looking  little  wooden  shanty. 
We  drove  there  first.  It  was  not  an  inspiring 
sight.  A  yellow-haired  Swedish  boy  with  an 
ink-smeared  face  sat  perched  on  a  stool, 
"throwing  in"  type.  The  old  Washington 
hand-press,  with  its  ponderous  lever,  stood  in 
one  corner,  with  the  gravestone  ink-slab  at 
the  side.  All  the  walls  were  frescoed  with  inky 
finger-daubs,  and  decorated  with  faded  circus 
lithographs  with  extravagant  "date  lines." 

There  was  a  frightful  odor  of  benzine  about 
the  room,  and  the  old  job  presses  looked  as  if 
they  were  hungry  for  a  form  to  keep  them 
busy. 

The  residents  of  Boomtown  were  an  unusually 
intelligent  and  bright  class  of  people  and  gave 
us  a  very  cordial  welcome.  The  burden  of 
conversation,  day  and  night,  was  "Boomtown's 
great  future — when  the  new  railroad  arrived." 

Bob  showed  me  the  flaming  maps  indicating 
Boomtown  as  quite  the  center  of  the  universe, 
and  in  our  fancy  a  glorious  future  was  painted 
for  us  and  for  the  benefit  of  the  numerous 
"settlers"  whom  we  hoped  we  could  induce  to 
settle  among  us  in  what  was  then  euphoniously 


142  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

termed  ilic  "banana  holt"  of  "llio  golden 
Northwest." 

The  wild  blizzards,  raging  that  winter  for 
days  at  a  time,  made  our  life  rather  dreary 
and  lonesome;  but  I  soon  became  quite  an 
accom])lished  editor's  wife,  addressing  "single" 
wrappers  for  the  papers  on  publication  days, 
mixing  the  paste,  and  picking  uj)  the  local 
current  gossip,  as  follows: 

"Mrs.  Mayor  Snodgrass  drove  out  yesterday 
with  Mrs.  Biff." 

"Mrs.  Jones  went  to  Babtown  in  the  after- 
noon, and  was  accompanied  by  Hon.  Fillipers 
Jones." 

"Miss  Sally  Stiggins  has  a  bad  felon  on  her 
left  hand." 

"Mr.  Joe  Waterbury  has  been  under  the 
weather  a  few  days  this  week." 

Do  you  laugli  at  this  as  trivial.^  It  is  much 
the  same  news  as  the  London  papers  give  con- 
cerning royalty.  In  America,  the  people  are 
the  royalty,  and  each  little  country  paper  has 
its  court  of  patrons  to  look  after,  and  no  town, 
hamlet  or  neighborhood  is  without  its  society. 

It  was  not  all  hopeful  endurance  of  extreme 


THE   MINOR   CHORD  143 

cold  and  driving  ponderie,  as  the  half-breeds 
called  the  impalpable  snow-dust  that  almost 
stifled  one  at  times;  and  indeed  did  every 
winter  claim  its  death-toll  of  the  lives  of 
men  and  animals.  Even  the  still  Arctic  days 
were  beautiful  when  the  sun  rose  up  in  the 
east  and  spangled  the  furled  snowdrifts  and 
faceted  weeds  and  grasses  with  diamonds, 
rubies,  sapphires  and  chrysophrase  in  countless 
numbers,  and  unrivalled  magnificence  of  colored 
rays. 

Then  as  the  day  wore  on  we  walked,  skated, 
coasted  and  went  sleighing,  much  the  same 
as  we  would  have  done  in  Iowa,  except  that 
buffalo  and  astrachan  coats  and  fur  caps  were 
quite  as  much  in  request  for  women  as  for  men, 
as  were  thick  German  socks  and  Arctic  over- 
shoes, for  a  "Dakota  zephyr"  in  winter  pierces 
through  a  pilot's  cloth  cloak  as  if  it  were  flimsy 
silk,  and  the  radiant  health  enjoyed  by  most 
of  us  needed  conservation  when  the  thermome- 
ter just  inside  the  storm-doors  registered  thirty 
to  forty  below  zero. 

Then  as  the  sunset  drew  near  there  were 
sometimes  magnificent  solar  rainbows;   strange 


144  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

displays  in  which  the  descending  sun  became 
the  center  of  an  arc  or  circle  of  dazzling  light, 
embellished  on  either  side  and  sometimes 
above,  with  a  somewhat  less  radiant  but  per- 
fect  duplicate   of   the   great    luminary. 

At  night  the  same  utter  calm  often  pre- 
vailed in  periods  of  intense  cold,  and  the  full 
moon  illumined  the  whole  landscape  for  miles 
away.  The  lofty  zenith  studded  with  stars 
sometimes  exhibited  an  immense  ring  of  light 
met  by  another  surrounding  the  moon,  herself 
duplicated  by  "lunar  rainbows,"  iridescent  orbs 
of  deeper  radiance.  At  other  times  the  Aurora 
Borealis,  the  mystical  "Northern  Lights"  of 
sea  rover  and  trapper,  and  the  "death-dance  of 
the  spirits"  of  Indian  folk-lore  would  fill  the 
heavens  with  strange  bands  and  masses  of 
steady  or  shimmering  light,  or  a  melange  of 
many-colored  advancing,  retreating  and  eddy- 
ing shapes,  which,  indeed,  required  little 
imagination  to  metamorphose  into  a  distant 
cloud  of  martial  warriors  painted  for  war, 
feather-draped  and  plume-bonneted,  and  si- 
lently performing  these  ancient  solemnities 
in  the  distant  spirit-land. 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  145 

Sometimes  the  men  hunted,  for  the  gray 
"timber  wolf,"  coyote,  fox,  badger  and  "Jack- 
rabbit"  or  "great  American  hare"  still  haunted 
the  sparse  woods  and  unsettled  bluffs  and 
marshes;  beaver,  mink,  otter  and  muskrat 
were  trapped  and  shot  and  with  spear  and  line 
the  fisherman  secured  ample  catches  of  pickerel, 
suckers,  perch  and  bass. 

The  spring  was  welcomed  and  yet  dreaded, 
for  the  Red  River  of  the  North  has  its  outlet 
closed  with  ice  when  its  southern  source  is 
open,  and  swollen  by  vernal  rains  and  melting 
snows,  and  great  masses  of  ice  borne  northward 
on  its  murky  eddies  form  massive  and  lofty 
dams  that  turn  immense  areas  of  the  Red 
River  Valley  into  that  enormous  lake  which 
wnse  men  say  was  its  permanent  form  aeons 
ago.  Then,  as  in  the  valley  of  the  Nile,  we 
beheld  a  great  inland  sea,  out  of  which  farm- 
stead, straw  stack  and  village  rose  hke  the 
islets  and  temples  of  ancient  Khern,  and  men 
paddled  about  in  home-made  batteaux  and 
hunted  big  frogs  on  the  plank  sidewalks  of 
the  village  streets. 

But  whether  cold  or  wet,  pleasant  or  stormy, 


146  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

the  social  life  of  Boomtown  was  democratic 
and  genial  beyond  all  praise.  When  the 
Methodists  started  in  to  build  the  first  church, 
Protestants  of  every  creed,  devout  Catholics, 
cynical  agnostics,  barkeepers  and  gamblers, 
all  "chipped  in"  to  aid  in  building  "the  first 
church  in  Boomtown,"  and  when  the  Presby- 
terians, Baptists  and  Catholics  essa^yed  like 
enterprises,  all  men  helped  to  their  best  ability. 

"Everything  goes"  was  the  general  watch- 
word of  that  era,  and  within  certain  limitations 
it  was  true,  but  the  license  w^hich  defied  the 
law  and  broke  the  bounds  of  order,  seldom 
went  long  unchecked.  Robbery  and  assaults 
on  women  were  almost  unknow^n,  although 
many  women,  young  and  old,  spent  night  after 
night  alone  upon  their  claims,  in  "shanties" 
which  any  man  might  pull  apart  with  his 
hands.  Perhaps  it  was  largely  due  to  this 
fact  that  a  revolver  was  usually  the  "bosom 
friend"  of  each  land-holder. 

Our  evenings  were  often  spent  at  lyceums 
and  lectures;  impromptu  balls  frequently 
brought  together  twenty  or  thirty  couples  to 
dance  to  the  music  of  piano  and  violin;    and 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  147 

"calling,"  which  varied  from  the  exact  and 
polite  verbiage  of  an  eastern  expert,  to  the 
rhythmic  singing  of  a  Missouri  Pike  with  his 
jean  pants  tucked  into  cowhide  boots,  whose 
version  of  "Swing  your  partners"  was  chanted 
out  in  a  soft,  Southern  drawling  clinuix:  "An' 
then  yer  honeys  swing." 

The  most  prosperous  person  in  town  was 
the  widow  of  a  half-breed,  who  had  built  his 
cabin  forty  years  before  on  land  which  was  now 
a  part  of  the  original  town  site.  One  of  the 
poorest  had  been  an  eastern  oil  distiller,  who 
had  defied  the  power  of  the  great  trust,  and  in 
his  old  age,  cheery  and  hopeful,  was  a  real 
estate  and  land  agent,  and  not  without  some 
prospect  of  retrieving  his  shattered  fortune. 

The  chief  crop  raised  in  Dakota  was  not 
wheat,  but  politics.  The  long  winter  evenings 
spent  by  the  men  hugging  red-hot  stoves  are 
certain  to  breed  mischief.  The  lone  settler  on 
the  dreary  plains! — God  help  his  poor  wife! 
No  wonder  the  insane  asylums  are  filled  with 
patients  described  as  "only  a  farmer's  wife." 
The  tedious  monotony  of  their  existence  is 
certainly    little    better    than    prison    life,    and 


148  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

accounts  for  much  of  the  discontent  among 
American  farmers,  who  along  the  hne  of  the 
Northern  Pacific  at  least  were  especially  iso- 
lated by  the  land  grants  and  school  apportion- 
ments. For,  as  all  men  once  knew,  Congress 
granted  to  the  promoters  of  the  Northern 
Pacific  every  other  section  (square  mile)  of 
land  along  its  whole  route  for  twenty  miles 
north  and  south  of  its  right  of  way,  equal  to  a 
solid  belt  twenty  miles  broad  from  the  Missis- 
sippi to  the  Pacific  Ocean.  Later  another 
grant  of  twenty  miles  more  on  each  side  was 
voted,  and  the  railroad  claiming  to  have  lost 
some  land  through  the  machinations  of  "squat- 
ters," an  indemnity  grant  of  ten  miles  more 
was  given  away  and  has  apparently  all  been 
allotted  to  the  Northern  Pacific.  In  Europe 
the  farmers  cluster  in  villages,  and  social  and 
public  diversions  and  the  little  gossip  and 
scandal  of  their  simple  life  alleviate  the  monot- 
ony of  their  existence  and  make  them  more 
contented. 

In  the  early  days  of  its  first  settlement, 
Boomtown  had  been  located  at  the  county 
seat  of  Halkins  County.     Since  then  a  second 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  149 

large  railroad  corporation  had  extended  a 
branch  of  its  line  into  the  southern  part  of 
the  county,  and  located  there  a  terminal  town- 
site,  which  was  owned  by  officials  of  the  rail- 
road. Subsidiary  corporations  and  interlocking 
schemes,  with  their  inflated  watered  stock 
bubbles,  account  for  many  of  the  large  fortunes 
gathered  so  quickly  by  American  railroad 
magnates. 

The  new  town  of  Courtville  was  named 
after  one  of  the  magnates,  and  it  aspired  to 
take  the  county  seat  away  from  Boomtown. 
A  flaw  was  discovered  in  the  first  proceedings  in 
establishing  the  county  seat,  and  a  fight  was 
made  in  the  legislature  at  Bismarck  to  have  a 
special  law  passed  to  re-submit  the  matter  to  a 
vote  of  the  people.  The  railroad  corporation 
in  extending  its  line  could  import  enough 
sovereign  American  voters — that  is,  the  large 
army  of  foreigners  who  were  the  railroad  la- 
borers, and  only  temporary  residents — to  carry 
the  election  and  secure  the  count}''  seat. 

Boomtown  was  aroused,  and  as  Bob  was 
looked  upon  as  a  leader  in  public  matters, 
we  were  to  go  to  Bismarck  to  try  and  defeat 


150  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

this  infamous  legislation.  After  we  arrived, 
Bob  made  a  careful  poll  of  the  members  of  the 
legislature,  in  order  to  learn  who  were  for  and 
who  were  against  the  scheme.  He  found  the 
railroad  represented  by  a  powerful  and  wealthy 
lobby,  but  excited  some  generous  members 
in  opposition;  while  I  tried  to  assist  by  influ- 
encing the  legislators  at  the  Governor's  recep- 
tions; but  women  did  not  then  wield  at  Ameri- 
can capitals  the  power  that  they  had  in  France 
in  the  days  of  the  Bourbons. 

Champagne  suppers  were  given  by  the 
railroad  lobby,  and  each  side  competed  for  every 
doubtful  vote.  The  critical  time  was  drawing 
near.  Bob  canvassed  his  voters  every  day, 
and  found  there  were  two  majority  on  our  side 
against  the  bill.  On  the  day  for  the  final 
voting,  I  went  to  the  State  House  through  a 
blinding  blizzard  and  sat  in  the  galleries,  almost 
the  only  woman  present. 

"If  we  can  keep  our  men  in  line,  we  are  all 
right,"  said  Bob  excitedly. 

The  "ayes"  and  "nays"  were  called.  There 
was  a  breathless  silence.  I  was  about  to  leave — 
satisfied  that  Boomtown  was  victorious — when 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  151 

I  saw  two  of  our  men  slip  quietly  out  at  a  side 
door.  I  rushed  down  into  the  corridor,  and  in 
the  dark  corners  saw  the  portly  lobl)yist, 
Colonel  ]\Ia!sey,  who  represented  the  railroad, 
hand  both  men  a  roll  suspiciously  like  bank- 
notes. They  quietly  stole  back  to  their  seats, 
but  the  lobbyist  never  appeared  in  the  hall. 
The  names  of  these  two  were  reached  near 
the  end  of  the  roll-call. 

"Yea,"  responded  one. 

"Yea,"  echoed  the  other. 

Boomtown  was  defeated  by  its  own  neigh- 
bors— representatives  from  an  adjoining  county. 

The  Boomtown  men  cried  "Briberv!"  An 
investigation  was  ordered,  and  Colonel  Malsey 
was  implicated,  but  he  proved  an  cdibi  by 
seven  reputable  witnesses  that  he  had  not  been 
near  the  State  House  on  the  day  the  vote  was 
taken. 

I  knew  he  lied,  but  what  was  a  woman's 
word  against  seven  "reputable  witnesses".^ 
I  never  told  Bob  about  seeing  Colonel  Malsey, 
and  was  very  happy  when  we  left  Bismarck 
that  night. 

The  election  occurred  the  following  autumn. 


152  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

Bob  traveled  miles  and  miles  over  the  prairie 
country  in  a  "buck})oard"  behind  broncho 
ponies.  He  visited  each  voter  personally,  and 
sometimes,  I  am  afraid,  like  the  opposing  side, 
he  gave  them  a  taste  from  his  bottle  of  "cold 
tea."  Meantime  I  remained  in  the  office 
editing  the  paper  and  facing  irate  readers  whom 
Bob  had  "blistered"  in  the  previous  issue. 
It  was  an  exciting  time.  The  outlook  was 
bright  for  Boomtown,  as  it  was  more  centrally 
situated  in  the  county  than  Courtville. 

Election  day  approached,  and  never  can  I 
forget  how  pale  and  wan  Bob  looked  when  the 
fatal  day  dawned.  He  owned  an  interest  in  the 
Boomtown  townsite,  and  it  was  a  battle  for 
his  home  and  all  that  he  possessed.  He  mort- 
gaged the  printing  office  to  raise  money  for 
the  campaign.  The  organization  was  thought 
to  be  perfect,  as  Boomtown  men  were  stationed 
at  every  polling  precinct  on  the  day  of  election 
to  watch  the  enemy  and  our  interests. 

The  returns  came  in  slowly  that  night, 
but  we  felt  that  victory  was  certain  to  be  ours. 
It  was  at  Courtville  itself,  with  its  alien  railroad 
voters,  that  the  foe  was  most  feared;   but  they 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  153 

had  been  checked  by  the  Boointown  challen- 
gers. Everyone  was  gleeful,  and  Bob  was 
cheered  as  he  delivered  an  address  from  the 
front  of  his  office  on  a  farmer's  wagon.  Bon- 
fires were  lighted  in  the  streets,  and  it  was 
altogether  a  night  of  rejoicing,  as  the  result  had 
been  received  from  every  precinct  except  the 
^Yaney  district  in  the  extreme  north  part  of 
the  county,  which  was,  of  course,  supposed  to 
have  given  an  almost  solid  vote  for  Boomtown. 

In  the  midst  of  the  rejoicing  a  courier  arrived 
from  the  Wanej^  district. 

"One  hundred  and  four  against  us!" 

This,  if  true,  turned  the  scale.  The  news 
soon  flashed  over  the  village.  The  alien  rail- 
road voters  had  been  quietly  sent  armed  in 
squads  to  that  precinct — a  flank  movement 
— and  the  Boomtown  challengers  had  been 
bribed. 

"Contest  it!"  "Hang  the  traitors!"  were 
the  cries  on  the  street. 

^Yell,  it  was  contested  in  the  courts  on  the 
ground  of  unconstitutional  legislation,  and 
writs  of  injunction  and  mandamus  were  issued 
from  the  District  Court  fifty  odd  miles  away, 


154  ITHE  MINOR  CHORD 

but  the  Courtville  men  came  up  armed  and  in 
overwhelming  numbers  to  remove  the  records 
from  the  court  house.  Sheriff  Stollard  had 
received  a  telegram  from  the  district  judge 
directing  him  to  serve  the  writs  already'  on  the 
way. 

The  sheriff  summoned  an  armed  posse,  who 
held  the  courthouse  when  the  Courtville  men, 
led  by  one  of  the  county  commissioners,  de- 
manded the  keys  and  the  records.  Stollard 
objected  and  remonstrated,  but  violence  was 
threatened,  and  like  the  man  who  did  not  care 
to  declare  in  favor  of  heaven  and  against  hell, 
he  "had  friends  in  both  places,"  and  had  no 
disposition  to  risk  his  precious  hide,  although 
the  Boomtown  men  with  guns  and  revolvers 
could  have  held  the  court  house  until  the  writs 
arrived  on  the  next  train. 

So  the  doors  were  flung  open  and  the  Court- 
villegang  poured  in  armed,  jubilant, triumphant. 
They  had  to  saw  out  the  door  jambs  to  remove 
the  great  desks  and  big  safes,  but  at  last  they 
looted  the  Courthouse  and  carried  their  booty 
to  temporary  quarters  at  Courtville.  The 
writs  came  in  and  the  stuff  had  to  be  brought 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  155 

back  again,  but  the  Boomtown  case  was  poorly 
presented,  and  all  the  money  and  influence  was 
on  the  other  side.  Boomtown  was  ruined,  and 
Bob  had  lost  everything  in  the  contest. 

It  was  a  paralyzing  blow  to  poor  Bob,  but 
he  made  the  best  of  a  ruinous  defeat.  "There 
is  one  consolation,  Minza,"  he  said. 

"And  what's  that,  dear.'^" 

"I  sent  your  father  the  one  thousand  dollars 
first.    He's  out  of  debt." 

"O  Bob!  you  darling,  you've  ruined  yourself 
for  them!" 

"No,  no,  a  young  man  is  never  ruined  by 
reverses  while  he  has  health." 

The  office  and  plant  of  the  Weekly  Times 
was  sold  under  a  foreclosed  mortgage,  and  we 
sought  new  fields  of  labor  and  another  home. 

The  wind  howled  dismally  the  night  we  left. 
It  was  in  December,  and  our  friends  at  Boom- 
town— for  misfortune  reveals  your  true  friends 
— bade  us  Godspeed.  We  started  for  a  new 
"city"  on  Lake  Superior  that  was  booming. 

Now  Bob  found  in  me  a  helpmate,  if  ever 
there  was  one;  but  where  husband  and  wife 
labor  together  in  the  same  business  or  trade 


156  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

there  is  bound  to  be  a  clash  at  times.  I  must 
confess  it,  although  I  had  promised  to  "obey" 
him,  yet  there  were  times  when  I  thought  he 
could  follow  my  advice  with  better  grace. 
After  a  little  quiet  cry  the  domestic  sky  would 
clear,  but  "It's  just  such  snivelling  as  this  that 
drives  men  to  the  bad  and  makes  them  seek 
other  companionship  and  drink,"  was  Robert's 
standard  argument. 

After  all,  I  look  back  on  mj-  first  years  of 
married  life  in  Dakota  as  happy,  although  it 
ended  in  reverses  and  was  fraught  with  rugged 
experience. 


CHAPTER  XVII 
The  Rift  in  the  Lute 

IT  was  with  some  misgivings  that  Robert 
and  I  took  up  our  abode  at  another  "grow- 
ing town."  The  "boom  eras"  in  America 
are  spasmodic  and  travel  in  waves.  They  are 
the  crises  of  the  speculative  fever  that  has 
always  been  characteristic  of  American  settle- 
ment and  development. 

The  evolution  of  a  Western  American  town 
is  an  interesting  study.  First,  the  town  plot 
and  the  corner  lot  speculation,  before  the  least 
indication  of  a  building  is  visible;  then  some 
great  factory,  railroad  shops,  or  industrial 
interests  center  there,  about  which  a  large  city 
is  to  "grow."  The  building  operations  start 
on  a  given  day,  rough  board  shanties  springing 
up  like  magic  over  night.  Then  comes  the 
struggle  to  determine  the  "business  portion" 
of  the  new  town.  Rival  districts  put  up 
large  buildings  as  magnets  to  attract  the  build- 
ing operations  of  genuine  settlers  and  business 

157 


158  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

men.  Next  follow  the  churches,  and  even 
these  sacred  structures  are  provided  with 
locations  by  the  real  estate  dealer,  who  knows 
that  it  is  real  estate  "lent  to  the  Lord"  at  a 
high  rate  of  usurious  interest. 

Municipal  organizations,  streets,  sidewalks, 
sewers,  water  supply  and  paving  are  the  suc- 
ceeding problems  in  the  evolution.  Later  the 
wooden  shanties  give  way  to  brick  "blocks," 
and  a  spirit  of  "bigger  and  better"  rivalry 
begins,  until  the  town  becomes  a  "city,"  and 
boasts  of  parks  and  a  "fine  opera  house," 
palatial  schoolhouses  and  court  houses,  a  Board 
of  Trade  and  "boodle"  aldermen. 

Town  politics  sometimes  fall  into  the  hands 
of  the  rougher  element,  who,  through  "public 
contracts"  and  winked-at  privileges,  strengthen 
themselves  into  a  ring;  and  a  mimic  Tammany 
Hall  is  originated  in  every  growing  American 
town  which  holds  the  balance  of  power  between 
the  principal  political  parties. 

At  Dunbar,  our  new  home,  Bob  secured  a 
situation  as  city  editor  on  a  daily  newspaper. 
In  a  sharp  and  bitter  local  political  struggle 
between  factions  of  the  same  party  one  side 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  159 

desired  to  start  a  newspaper  as  their  "organ," 
with  Bob  as  editor.  They  made  up  a  liberal 
subscription  as  a  bonus,  and  in  a  short  time 
the  new  paper  was  launched. 

"Well,  Minza,  I  have  a  daily  newspaper 
now,"  said  Bob  one  day. 

This  was  the  first  intimation  I  had  received 
of  Bob's  ambitions  in  that  direction. 

"And  are  you  sure  another  paper  will  pay?" 

"Pay!"  he  replied.  "I  have  everything  to 
gain,  and  I'm  a  Dakota  fighter." 

I  assisted  every  day  at  the  oflSce,  Bob  filling 
the  positions  of  editor,  business  manager,  com- 
positor, foreman,  reporter  and  proofreader  on 
the  struggling  new  paper.  It  was  a  tremendous 
strain  on  him;  he  was  hardly  civil  to  me,  so 
absorbed  was  he  in  his  business.  I  became 
more  an  employe  than  a  wife.  The  change  in 
him  had  come  on  gradually  since  our  reverses 
in  Dakota. 

Dunbar,  besides  being  a  growing  and  pros- 
perous manufacturing  center,  was  also  a  famous 
resort  for  tourists.  The  trout  fishing  and 
hunting  in  the  "forests  primeval"  were  great 
attractions.     Among  the  tourists  who  visited 


160  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

the  large  hotel  "Minnehaha"  every  summer  was 
one  Henry  Orglive,  a  prominent  theatrical 
manager.  Bob  had  received  a  large  order  from 
him  for  printing,  and  had  urged  him  to  visit 
our  home. 

"Minza,  do  be  more  sociable  with  my  friends. 
It's  business,  you  know.  Brush  up  your  music 
and  sing  for  him." 

Mr.  Orglive  took  tea  with  us  the  following 
week.  He  was  a  tall,  handsome  man  with  a 
heavy  moustache.  After  tea  I  played  and  sang. 
He  accompanied  me  in  my  violin  selections, 
and  we  were  naturally  drawn  together  by  a 
common  taste  for  good  music.  I  was  hungry 
for  appreciation  of  the  art  in  which  I  had  been 
nursed  from  earliest  childhood. 

Bob  sat  in  a  corner  and  nodded,  for  his  musi- 
cal taste  had  not  improved  since  our  marriage, 
although  I  had  done  my  best  to  educate  him. 

We  continued  to  play  until  late,  and  in  part- 
ing Mr.  Orglive's  admiration  and  sympathy 
in  my  musical  tastes  had  made  a  most  favorable 
impression. 

"I  have  enjoyed  the  evening  very  much, 
Mr.  Burnette,  and  shall  want  to  come  again," 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  161 

said  Mr.  Orglive  to  Bob  as  he  was  leaving. 
"Mrs.  Burnette  is  a  charming  musician." 

"Glad  to  hear  it — glad  to  hear  it,"  said  Bob 
rather  sleepily  as  he  showed  him  to  the  door. 

When  Bob  returned  to  the  room  he  glowered 
upon  me  with  the  ferocity  of  a  wild  beast. 

"You  thought  I  was  asleep,  but  I  wasn't." 

"What  is  it,  Robert?"  I  asked  innocently. 

"Oh,  you  know,"  he  retorted,  "you  needn't 
look  so  innocent." 

This  roused  my  temper.  I  put  the  piano 
cover  down  with  a  bang  and  blew  out  the 
light. 

That  made  him  furious,  and  here  was 

"The  little  rift  within  the  lute, 
That  by  and  by  will  make  the  uuisic  mute, 
And  ever  widening,  slowly  silence  all." 

The  incidents  of  this  night  and  Bob's  anger 
created  in  me  an  admiration  for  Mr.  Orglive 
which,  had  I  been  informed  by  Robert  of  Mr. 
Orglive's  real  character  as  a  "lady-killer," 
I  should  never  have  entertained  for  a  moment. 
I  thought  that  Bob  was  needlessly  and  fool- 
ishly jealous,  after  requiring  me  to  entertain  a 


162  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

gentleman  whose  good  opinion  and  business 
favors  he  had  wished  to  cultivate. 

The  new  hotel  was  opened  a  fortnight  later 
with  a  grand  ball,  and  Robert  insisted  that  I 
should  be  present  and  look  my  best.  "It's  a 
matter  of  business,  so  be  careful  how  you  act," 
he  said,  as  he  brought  me  some  beautiful  flowers 
for  my  corsage. 

Poor  fellow,  I  thought  his  mind  must  be 
giving  way  under  the  strain  of  business  anxie- 
ties. I  did  not  know  what  to  say  or  do,  and 
I  kept  back  the  tears  from  my  eyes  with  difl5- 
culty. 

Mv  silence  irritated  him.     We  drove  to  the 

t. 

ball,  and  as  I  came  out  of  the  dressing-room 
I  met  Mr.  Orglive. 

'"So  charmed  to  see  you,  Mrs.  Burnette. 
I've  rather  taken  charge  of  affairs  tonight, 
seeing  that  I  am  a  stockholder  in  this  new 
hotel,  and  you're  to  sing  for  us." 

"But  I've  no  music,"  I  replied. 

"I  have,"  he  said  quickly.  "I  bought  those 
pieces  you  sang  for  me  the  other  evening.  I 
never  can  forget — " 

Just  then  Bob  came  up,  and  his  face  was 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  163 

fairly  livid.  "Doii'l  you  sing  tonigbt,  or  you  will 
regret  it,"  he  said  under  his  breath,  but  I  saw 
that  several  overheard  or  comprehended  him. 

"I  will,"  I  replied  defiantly.  "I  can't  refuse 
without  exciting  remark,  and  you  yourself 
have  brought  me  here,  although  I  did  not  care 
to  come.  Now  you  can  take  me  home  at  once, 
if  you  choose,  or  I  shall  feel  free  to  act  as  any 
other  lady  guest  would  do  under  the  circum- 
stances.   Shall  we  go  home.'^" 

"No,"  he  replied  brusquely,  "but  don't 
dare  to  sing  for  that  man." 

Afraid  of  making  a  scene,  I  hurried  away 
and  joined  my  friends,  who  chatted  merrily 
over  the  new  hotel  and  the  delightful  arrange- 
ments for  our  comfort  and  pleasure. 

My  songs  were  announced  after  the  first 
lancers,  and  I  did  not  dance,  so  as  to  save  my 
breath.  Mr.  Orglive  presided  at  the  piano,  and 
his  accompaniment  was  sympathetic  and  mas- 
terly. The  whole  past  seemed  to  come  back, 
and  passionately  and  defiantly  I  sang  the  songs 
he  handed  me.  I  had  not  sung  before  a  Dunbar 
audience  previous  to  this,  and  it  created  some- 
thing of  a  sensation. 


164  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

"Is  that  Mrs.  Burnette?"  "Really  now, 
what  a  beautiful  singer!"  were  the  whispered 
remarks  I  overheard  as  I  took  my  seat. 

Congratulations  were  pouring  in  when  Mr. 
Orglive  gave  me  his  arm  and  escorted  me  from 
the  concert  hall. 

In  a  corner  of  the  cloak  room  Robert  was 
crouching  like  a  tiger.  Of  course  everyone 
must  have  noticed  him,  and  I  went  to  him  at 
once. 

"Will  you  take  me  home?"  I  whispered. 

"No,"  he  hissed,  rather  than  spoke,  and 
Mr.  Orglive  at  the  door  must  have  overheard 
him. 

"May  I  have  this  waltz?"  said  Mr.  Orglive, 
advancing  as  the  music  was  resumed. 

I  hesitated.  I  had  not  danced  since  our 
marriage,  and  with  a  desperate  shrug  I  an- 
swered 'Yes." 

That  waltz  was  divine,  a  revelation.  How 
my  partner's  courtesy  shamed  my  husband's 
rudeness.  We  glided  over  the  perfectly  waxed 
floor  as  in  the  fascination  of  a  dream.  I  went 
back  to  Bob,  who  still  sat  sulking  by  himself. 

"Take  me  home,  Robert,"  I  said. 


THE  :\riNOR   CHORD  1G5 

He  arose  drowsily,  as  if  ])ored,  and  went  to 
the  cloakroom.  While  I  was  waiting  for  him 
in  the  corridor,  Mr.  Orglive  came  out  of  the 
dancing-room,  wiping  the  perspiration  from 
his  brow.  He  had  been  through  a  vigorous 
polka  with  ]Mrs.  Goundy,  who  was  very  stout. 

"Your  voice  is  divine,  Mrs.  Burnette,"  he 
said  enthusiastically. 

Bob  heard  him  as  he  came  out  of  the  cloak- 
room, and  the  two  men  glared  at  each  other  a 
minute  and  parted  stiffly.  How  miserable  I 
was  after  it  all!  Scarcely  a  word  was  spoken 
between  us  on  the  way  home.  I  took  off  my 
ball  dress  and  sat  by  the  open  grate  praying — 
praying  to  God.  A  miserable,  unhappy,  girl  wife! 

Matters  did  not  mend,  and  it  seemed  as  if 
the  rift  was  widening  and  we  were  drifting 
farther  and  farther  apart.  Bob  would  remain 
out  late  at  night  and  I  feared  further  trouble, 
he  was  so  completely  unlike  his  old  self.  His 
whole  thoughts  were  given  to  making  money. 

One  evening  he  came  home  to  dinner  in  a 
rather  more  cheerful  frame  of  mind  than  usual. 
I  was  surprised.  But  it  was  with  a  sarcastic 
laugh  and  cynical  smile  that  he  greeted  me: 


166  THE  jVIINOR  CHORD 

"Now  you'll  want  a  symphony  orchestra 
instead  of  a  grand  piano,"  and  he  threw  down 
a  large  yellow  envelope.  "Read  it,"  he  con- 
tinued. 

I  did  so  mechanically.  It  was  a  letter  from 
a  New  York  firm  of  lawyers.  One  sentence 
was  enough. 

"Your  claim  to  the  one  hundred  thousand 
dollars  from  the  Ferguson  estate  in  Scotland  is 
established." 

"You're  to  be  congratulated,"  I  said  rather 
languidly,  for  neither  money  nor  success  seemed 
to  compensate  for  his  aversion  and  neglect. 

"So  that's  the  way  my  years  of  struggle  and 
work  are  received.'*  Damn  a  woman,  anyhow! 
I'll  go  back  to  airships." 

I  should  have  been  more  patient,  but  my 
temper  again  got  the  better  of  me. 

"Keep  your  money! — I  don't  want  it;  I'm 
going  home,"  I  said  angrily.  "I  didn't  marry 
you  for  money,  and  I'm  going  back  to  those 
who  love  me." 

This  seemed  to  sober  him. 

"Minza,  don't  be  mad,"  he  cried  coaxingly, 
coming  toward  me.     "Think  of  the  scandal." 


THE  ]\nNOR  CHORD  167 

"I  have  clccidotl,"  I  said  firmly.  "Better 
even  that  than  to  live  in  torture." 

It  looked  for  a  time  as  if  there  might  be  a 
reconciliation,  but  I  was  adamant,  and  Robert, 
alas,  was  not  himself,  and  I  did  not  know  it. 

"Well,  Minza,  I  am  now  an  aeronaut,  and 
ril  soar — soar — then  vou'll  want  to  see  me, 
I  guess,"  he  growled  as  he  left  the  room. 

This  last  remark  revealed  what  I  had  before 
half  suspected.  Was  Bob's  mind  affected?  It 
was  a  terrible  thought,  and  I  did  not  dare  to 
breathe  a  word  of  my  suspicions,  for  the  gossips 
would  say  I  wanted  to  deprive  him  of  his  for- 
tune. Ordinarily  he  seemed  rational  enough; 
but  now  all  this  talk  of  airships  had  an  ominous 
significance. 

It  was  announced  in  the  paper  the  next  day 
that  I  was  to  visit  my  home  in  Iowa.  Bob 
sold  the  newspaper  soon  after,  and  was  deluged 
on  all  sides  with  advice  as  to  how  to  invest 
his  money.  How  many  moth-like  friends  the 
possession  of  wealth  will  bring!  They  found 
out  his  pet  hobby  and  weakness — airships! 

Neither  of  us  seemed  to  realize  that  it  might 
be  a  final  separation.     I  now  had  no  power 


168  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

or  influence  with  him.  He  sent  money  to  the 
Smitliville  bank  to  my  credit  and  gave  me  a 
purse  when  we  parted.  It  was  Hke  kissing  a  dead 
person  when  I  bade  him  "good-bye."  I  tried 
to  confide  mv  fears  as  to  his  sanitv  to  some 
friends,  but  they  were  all  suspicious,  and 
thought  I  wanted  his  fortune  "to  lead  an 
artist's  life." 

I  felt  a  little  regret  at  leaving  Dunbar.  The 
beautiful  bay,  which  was  an  arm  of  Lake 
Superior,  was  placid  and  serene;  the  large 
pine,  spruce  and  hemlock  trees  making  a  rich 
purple  horizon  fringe  on  the  opposite  shore. 
This  little  group  of  islands  glistened  like  emer- 
alds upon  its  bosom  as  the  city  faded  from  view. 
Even  the  scattered  stumps  and  red,  mucky  clay 
seemed  to  add  artistic  beauty  to  the  scene. 
Then  we  passed  into  the  burned  district  whose 
dismal  landscape  of  burnt  pine-stumps  and  log 
clearings  indicated  the  fury  of  forest  fires  in 
which  many  a  poor  settler  had  lost  his  life. 

And  then  the  factory  whistles  sounded  in 
chorus  that  echoed  among  the  hills  a  long, 
dolorous  minor  chord. 

Of  course  people  would  talk,  but  let  them 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  169 

talk!  My  whole  life  had  been  more  or  less  a 
matter  of  public  discussion,  but  during  the 
night  on  the  Pullman  sleeping  car  I  restlessly 
dreamed  of  Robert  and  his  airships  and  of 
lofty  ascents  in  which  he  soared  away  from 
me  forever. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

At  Home  Again 

WHILE  I  did  not  intend  that  my  sepa- 
ration from  Robert  should  be  per- 
manent, I  felt  that  the  unexpected 
acquisition  of  so  much  money  was  a  strain  on 
his  mind,  already  overworked,  and  liable  1x) 
break  down  at  any  time.  I  felt  it  my  duty  to 
cling  to  him,  but  thought  that  a  temporary 
separation  would  give  us  both  time  to  recover 
from  our  estrangement  and  to  remember  and 
resume  our  duties  toward  each  other.  Had  it 
not  been  for  the  money  that  unsettled  his 
reason,  it  would  have  been  an  easier  task. 

What  a  return  home  it  was !  I  felt  something 
of  a  prodigal.  The  letters  from  Smith ville  had 
been  rather  irregular  and  had  been  growing 
more  formal ;  but  when  I  saw  the  dear  old  house 
with  green  blinds  nestling  amid  the  trees  and 
flowers,  I  felt  that  one  thing  had  been  accom- 
plished— we  were  not  one  thousand  dollars  in 
debt — and   this  brought   back  a  tender  mem- 

170 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  171 

ory  of  Bob's  generosity.    Was  I  not  really  an 
ungrateful  creature? 

I  expected  to  find  poverty  and  sadness  in  the 
old  home,  but  there  was  peace,  plenty  and  hap- 
piness. It  seemed  as  if  I  was  quite  unneces- 
sary to  the  comfort  of  the  family  I  had  left  in 
comparative  poverty. 

There  was  no  lack  of  love  or  tenderness, 
however,  in  the  greetings  that  welcomed  me 
back  to  the  dear  old  home. 

"Minza,  Minza,  my  child!"  cried  mother  as 
she  rushed  out. 

Father  came  in  from  the  garden.  Jimmy 
gave  me  a  real  young  brother's  hug  and  Tod 
waved  his  Fourth  of  July  flag  in  exultation. 

Yes,  they  were  glad  to  see  me,  and  how  my 
hungry,  love-famished  heart  leaped  for  joy! 
There  is  always  a  feeling  of  refuge  at  home — 
there  the  envies  and  jealousies  of  life  cannot 
intrude.  At  mother's  knee  I  sat  as  I  did  when 
a  child  and  told  her  all  between  my  sobs. 

"My  dear,  dear  Minza!  why  didn't  you 
write  to  me?" 

*T  couldn't,  mother;  ray  secret  sorrows 
seemed  as  sacred  to  me  as  my  prayers." 


172  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

"Well,  dear,  you  are  home  now;  let's  forget 
it  all.  You  know  I  trembled  for  my  daughter 
even  when  we  heard  of  your  prosperity.  You 
decided  too  hastily,  and  I  always  thought  if 
we  had  not  gone  to  Europe  I  should  have  saved 
you  the  hasty  and  fatal  step." 

"But,  mother.  Bob  was  good  as  long  as — " 
I  broke  down  again. 

"Yes,  perhaps  the  poor  fellow  overtaxed  liis 
brain,  and  it  may  come  out  all  right  yet.  Let 
us  have  some  tea  and  music." 

Her  cheerfulness  was  infectious,  and  we  were 
soon  singing  the  old  duets. 

As  I  received  letters  regularly  with  money 
from  Bob,  there  was  little  talk  in  the  village, 
but  when  my  stay  lengthened  out  into  months, 
and  he  never  came  to  visit  me,  a  ripple  of 
curiosity  ran  through  the  neighborhood. 

I  tried  to  get  my  husband  to  pay  a  visit  to 
Smithville,  or  to  join  me  in  a  tour  down  the 
Mississippi,  or  to  the  Atlantic  Coast,  but  he 
was  at  first  "too  busy,"  and  later  was  called 
home  by  the  serious  illness  of  his  widowed 
mother.  In  the  autumn  I  received  the  following 
note,  dated  at  Shelby ville: 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  173 

"Dear  Minza, — Mother  died  Friday  and  was 
buried  this  morning;  there  is  nothing  for  me 
to  Hve  for  now.  I  am  going  to  Europe  next 
week  to  cross  the  Alps  in  my  new  balloon, 
which  I  have  named  after  you.  We  have  organ- 
ized a  scientific  expedition.  I  may  meet  you 
in  heaven.     Good-bye.  Bob." 

There  was  no  doubt  of  it  now.  He  had  lost 
his  mind.  I  decided  to  go  to  Shelbyville  that 
night.  I  thought  my  duty  as  a  wife  demanded 
it  and  determined  to  go  with  him. 

As  I  was  just  about  to  board  the  train  a 
telegram  was  handed  me  from  New  York: 

"I  sail  tomorrow;  you  cannot  go.  Your  heart 
is  too  heavy  for  the  balloon.  Bob." 

With  all  the  cunning  of  a  madman  he  seemed 
to  have  divined  my  purpose.  I  tried  to  inter- 
cept him  with  a  telegram  to  the  authorities  in 
New  York,  but  even  they,  after  an  examina- 
tion, permitted  him  to  sail,  and  evidently 
thought  me  a  scheming  wife,  eager  only  for 
his  money.     The  letter  I  received  later  stated: 

"Dear  Madam, — I  take  pleasure  in  stating 
that  Robert  Burnette  is  of  sound  mind,  and 
no  more  insane  than  any  of  our  eminent  scien- 


174  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

lists  and  investigators,  and  that  the  trip  will 
not  only  add  valuable  truths  to  science,  but 
improve  his  health  as  well. 

J.  M.  Bartlett,  M.  D.' 


5> 


I  watched  eagerly  for  the  safe  arrival  of  the 
steamer.  Later  I  received  long,  interesting  and 
affectionate  letters  from  Bob,  but  the  balloon 
always  came  first.  He  was  generous  in  his 
allowances  of  money,  but  the  old  jealousy 
cropped  out  at  times,  as  when  he  wrote: 

"But  I  shall  not  send  you  too  much  money 
at  one  time,  as  you  might  run  away  in  another 
man's    balloon." 

Some  months  had  elapsed  when  I  received 
a  letter  from  him  announcing  a  great  aerial 
voyage  he  was  to  undertake  that  day  in  his 
new  airship.  His  fortune  must  have  dwindled 
under  the  enormous  expense  of  his  aerial  expe- 
ditions, but  he  was  always  hopeful. 

"When  I  visit  Mars  and  return,  we'll  go  there 
to  live,  Minza.     The  new  ship  is  a  beauty." 

He  was  to  make  his  great  ascent  on  my 
birthday.  How  eagerly  I  watched  the  cable- 
grams in  the  papers!  The  event  attracted 
world-wide   attention   as  a  noble   self-sacrifice 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  175 

for  science.  The  balloon  ascended  with  my 
husband. 

"The  great  airship  'Minza'  faded  away  into 
the  merest  speck  and  seemed  to  sink  into  the 
blue  sea  of  the  skies,"  read  the  graphic  account. 
This  was  the  last  I  heard  of  poor  Bob.  Whether 
I  was  now  a  widow  or  a  wife — I  knew  not. 

Of  course  I  naturally  supposed  that  his  will 
was  made,  and  that  there  would  be  no  trouble 
about  the  property  if  there  was  any  left,  but 
I  was  mistaken.  Bob  had  disappeared  in  a 
foreign  country,  and  as  the  authorities  had  no 
positive  evidence  of  his  death,  they  refused  to 
probate  a  wife's  claim  to  his  money.  Even 
the  life  insurance  companies  refused  to  pay 
the  indemnity.  There  was  indeed  no  proof  of 
death.  If  I  was  indeed  still  a  wife  I  had  in 
veritv  "a  husband  in  the  air." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

My  Success  as  a  Soloist 

ONCE  again  I  was  confronted  with  the 
problem  of  earning  a  Hving.  I  could  not 
allow  mother  or  father  to  support  me. 
Mother  again  appealed  to  my  old  ambition. 

"Take  your  money  and  study  for  the  stage, 
Minza.  You  are  growing  beautiful,  my  dear," 
said  she,  "and  your  early  training  will  not 
come  amiss,"  and  after  another  of  those  old- 
time  family  consultations,  mother's  advice 
prevailed. 

In  another  week  I  was  to  leave  for  Boston 
and  resume  my  musical  studies.  My  life's 
mission  then  began  in  earnest,  although  every 
day  I  expected  some  tidings  from  the  lost 
aeronaut. 

The  day  before  I  was  to  start  I  felt  dizzy, 
and  the  reaction  brought  me  down.  Dr. 
Waddington  was  called,  and  mother  soon  had 
me  in  bed.  The  old  doctor  felt  my  cheek,  took 
my  temperature  and  counted  my  pulse. 

176 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  177 

"Hum,  hum — typhoid  fever,"  he  said,  in  as 
matter-of-fact  a  way  as  if  it  had  been  the 
mumps.  That  was  the  last  natural  thing  I 
remembered;  then  I  seemed  to  be  wuth  Bob  on 
his  Alpine  expeditions. 

At  last  one  night  the  great  airship  grazed 
a  jutting  crag,  and  I  stepped  quickly  aboard. 
Bob  met  me  with  the  old  love  light  in  his  eyes, 
but  there  was  a  quieter  and  deeper  tenderness 
than  I  had  seen  for  many  a  day.  "My  wife," 
he  said  gently  and  caught  me  in  his  arms. 

"My  husband!"  I  said  brokenly,  "can  you 
ever  forgive  me?"  and  I  broke  into  a  passion 
of  tears,  but  his  kisses  were  on  my  brow  and  they 
were  happy  tears,  for  I  knew  that  he  had 
always  loved  me  and  now  loved  me  even  more 
deeph'  at  last. 

We  floated  upward,  up  higher  and  higher 
into  the  golden  radiance  that  gilded  the  loftier 
glaciers,  and  Bob's  voice  fell  through  the 
Alpine  silence  like  silver  bells.  "We  are  both 
forgiven,"  he  said,  "for  those  who  love  are 
shrived  before  confession.  Remember,  Minza, 
I  have  loved  you  always,  love  you  still,  and 
shall  love  vou  forever." 


178  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

Then  I  seemed  again  to  near  the  gates  of 
pearl,  but  all  at  once  I  was  sinking,  sinking — 
and  I  awoke  refreshed,  but  with  my  eyes 
strangely  wet  with  tears,  and  somehow  I  felt 
that  in  that  dream  Robert  and  I  had  met  and 
had  parted,  forgiving  and  forgiven. 

"Poor  little  Minza — a  wife  or  a  widow?" 
was  the  first  thing  I  remember  mother  saying. 
They  thought  I  had  sung  my  last  song. 

Naturally  mj^  illness  interfered  with  my 
plans  for  the  future,  but  as  soon  as  I  was 
convalescent  I  began  to  map  out  my  campaign. 
Getting  well  was  a  tedious  business,  but  some- 
how time  wheels  around  the  days  and  months 
just  as  regularly  at  one  season  as  another. 
The  fear  of  losing  my  voice  proved  groundless 
—in  fact,  it  seemed  to  strengthen  and  improve; 
but  my  red  hair  all  came  out  and  left  me  quite 
bald.  It  soon  grew  again,  although  I  left  for 
Boston  with  a  flowing  blonde  wig. 

As  I  entered  the  train  I  saw  a  familiar 
form  stooping  under  the  weight  of  heavy  valises. 
It  was  Fred  Burroughes.  He  did  not  recognize 
me,  but  I  spoke  to  him  and  he  looked  up  in 
surprise. 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  179 

"What — Minza!  Why!  where  are  you  going?'* 

We  got  on  the  train  together  and  I  tokl  him 
my  story. 

Of  course  this  incident  gave  Smithville  a 
rare  piece  of  gossip,  and  mother  was  enlight- 
ened with  the  information  that  I  had  eloped 
with  Fred  Burroughes,  my  first  benefactor. 

His  mother  had  died  recently,  and  he,  too, 
had  been  ill  for  nearly  a  year  past,  as  his  pale 
face  indicated. 

We  were  in  the  middle  of  an  interesting 
conversation  when  he  abruptly  rose. 

"I  must  get  off  here,  Minza,"  he  said  with  a 
sad  look  in  his  eyes.  "Oh,  if  I  could  only  help 
vou— " 

"Hush,  Fred,  it  is  I  who  should  help  you 
now.     Write  to  me,  will  you?" 

"Minza,  I'm  married.  This  is  my  home, 
and — " 

"All  aboard!"  shouted  the  burly  conductor, 
and  the  rest  of  Fred's  words  were  lost  in  the 
roar  of  the  train. 

Thus  friends  drift  apart  in  absence,  and  old 
acquaintances  give  place  to  new  associations. 
Poor  Fred!    Was  his  life  as  unhappy  as  mine? 


180  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

When  back  in  Boston  again  all  seemed 
familiar  to  me,  and  under  my  old  teacher, 
Professor  Windemere,  I  plunged  into  my  musical 
studies.  He  remembered  every  weakness  and 
peculiarity  of  mj-  early  singing,  and  gave  them 
special  attention.  When  I  announced  my 
determination  to  study  opera,  he  shook  his 
head  doubtfully. 

"Your  voice  is  too  weak — not  full  enough 
for  the  great  opera  houses;  and  then  you'll 
have  to  learn  to  act.  No,  Minza,  I  don't  want 
you  to  chase  a  false  hope.  Study  to  be  a  teacher 
and  rest  content." 

"My  mother  said  I  was  to  be  a  prima  donna," 
I  replied  decidedly,  "and  I'm  going  to  aim 
for  that." 

"All  right,  my  dear,  but  remember  the 
warning  I  gave  you." 

My  means  were  limited,  and  to  secure  addi- 
tional instruction  in  stage  work  I  accepted  a 
position  in  the  cloak  department  of  a  large 
department  store,  where  I  came  in  contact  with 
wealthy  women  customers.  It  brought  me 
a  steady  income,  and  I  continued  to  work  for 
some  time;  but  at  the  end  of  the  year  I  found 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  181 

mj'  funds  almost  entirely  exhausted  except 
for  the  little  savings  sent  me  by  mother  and 
the  small  salary  from  the  store. 

I  made  application  to  sing  the  solo  parts 
in  "The  Creation"  at  the  coming  May  Festival. 
It  was  audacious  in  me,  but  the  conductor, 
having  had  the  usual  trouble  with  rival  prima 
donnas,  accepted  me  in  defiance  of  both 
the  recalcitrant  soloists. 

An  unknown  soloist!  The  public  were  on 
the  qui  vive.  I  rehearsed  hours  and  hours  with 
the  conductor,  and  he  finally  expressed  himself 
rather  reluctantly  as  "pleased"  with  his  newly 
discovered  soprano. 

The  dav  of  the  festival  arrived.  The  choruses 
of  Haydn  never  before  seemed  so  heaven- 
inspired.  My  voice  acted  rather  poorly  at 
first,  but  when  I  came  to  the  passage  wherein 
the  cooing  of  a  dove  is  imitated,  I  threw  my 
whole  soul  into  the  effort  to  express  the  soft 
love  notes  of  the  snow-white  bird,  which  I 
could  almost  feel  hovering  near  me. 

The  effect  was  electrical.  The  people  ap- 
plauded with  one  solid  cheer,  for  my  simple 
and    truthful    rendition    of    the    passage    had 


182  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

touched  the  responsive  chord  in  all  that  great 
audience. 

The  entire  oratorio  was  rendered  with  splen- 
did expression,  and  the  conductor  was  showered 
with  congratulations.  He  pushed  his  way 
through  the  singers  to  where  I  was  surrounded 
by  admiring  acquaintances.  His  shining,  bald 
head  seemed  to  reflect  the  beaming  smile  on 
his  face. 

"Your  fame  is  made,  madame.  Don't  hesi- 
tate to  begin  on  your  repertoire  at  once.  You 
have  my  everlasting  gratitude;  you  have  saved 
me  a  humiliation." 

The  newspapers  were  very  elaborate  in  their 
praise.  The  reporters  called  on  me  and  were 
surprised  to  learn  that  I  thoroughly  under- 
stood the  workings  of  the  editorial  machines  in 
grinding  out  "copy."  They  were  mj^  best 
friends,  and  I  took  pains  to  help  them  to 
"good  stories."  The  old  newspaper  experiences 
came  back  to  me,  and  the  pleasant  hours  I 
spent  in  receiving  those  keen,  bright-eyed 
young  newspaper  men  are  still  accounted 
fortunate  days  among  my  recollections. 

Those  who  succeed  in  a  public  career  seldom 


THE   MINOR   CHORD  183 

realize  how  much  they  owe  to  these  irrepressible 
journaHsts,  who  are  at  heart  generous  to  a 
fault  and  are  only  a  little  too  strenuous  in 
their  pursuit  of  news. 

In  a  few  weeks  I  was  known  as  a  singer 
throughout  America,  and  properly  christened 
with  a  stage  name.  Even  the  querulous  com- 
ment of  the  older  critics,  who  never  liked  to 
agree  with  the  younger  ones,  had  its  beneficial 
effect  in  making  "Madame  Helvina"  known  to 
the  musical  world. 

After  this  I  began  to  develop  a  capacity  for 
business.  The  oratorio  engagement  brought 
me  numerous  offers  for  concerts,  although  the 
income  did  not  amount  to  much. 

It  was  a  newspaper  man  —  Mr.  Howard 
Wittaker  —  who  solved  the  question  of  my 
future  career. 

"You  should  go  abroad  at  once,  Madame 
Helvina." 

"Yes.^" 

"I've  an  idea,"  he  went  on.  "Old  James 
Burlingame,  the  wool  magnate,  was  captivated 
by  your  singing.     I  will  negotiate  a  loan." 

"You're  very  kind,  but  be  ver^^  careful — " 


184  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

*'Then  will  you  lell  me  the  real  story  of  your 
life?"  he  entreated. 

''No,  that's  a  secret;  the  past  is  dead  to  me. 
Please  don't  ask  me." 

"As  you  will — I  am  at  your  service,"  he 
said,  as  he  gallantly  bowed  himself  out  of  the 
door. 

An  American  newspaper  man  has  a  faculty 
for  accomplishing  results.  A  few  days  later 
I  received  a  note: 

"Enclosed  find  cheque,  two  thousand  dollars, 
sent  by  order  Mr.  James  Burlingame,  who 
desires  in  return  your  personal  note  and  photo- 
graph. Make  the  note  due  at  a  date  conven- 
ient to  yourself. 

"J.  Smith  &  Sons,  Bankers.'' 

I  was  unable  to  spare  the  money  to  visit 
my  mother  and  the  little  Western  home  before 
I  went  abroad,  and  besides  mother  wrote  in- 
sistently: "Start  at  once.  Time  counts.  You 
are  growing  old."  What!  Growing  old  and 
only  twenty!  Yes,  there  were  a  few^  gray  hairs. 
Anything  but  red  hair!  thought  I. 

The  day  of  sailing  soon  arrived.  The  pier 
was  crowded  with  people  bidding  farewell  to 


THE   MINOR   CHORD  185 

loved  ones.  Flowers  and  bouquets  were  show- 
ered upon  the  departing  passengers.  The  first 
bell  sounded  and  fond  "Good-byes"  were 
accompanied  by  tears.  Mothers  parting  from 
sons,  sweethearts  from  lovers,  brothers  from 
sisters,  husbands  from  wives!  How  my  loneli- 
ness made  me  envy  even  these  partings.  There 
was  none  there  to  bid  me  "good-bye."  I 
stood  alone  looking  over  the  rail  as  the  cheers 
began  and  the  hats  and  handkerchiefs  waved 
from  the  pier.  The  brass  band  struck  up  a 
lively  air,  as  if  to  drown  the  sobs  while  the 
great  boat  backed  out  from  the  pier  and 
steamed  majestically  down  the  harbor. 

The  last  sound  I  heard  from  my  native  shore 
was  the  dismal  echo  of  the  bell-buoy  as,  swaj'- 
ing  to  and  fro  on  the  waves  of  the  restless  sea, 
its  ponderous  fog  bell  struck  the  tolling  minor 
chord  of  the  ocean  guardian  of  the  harbor 
channel. 


CHAPTER  XX 

I  Meet  Gene  Paroski 

SINCE  the  earliest  Scriptural  accounts  of 
the  days  of  Jonah  and  the  journey  to 
Rome  of  St.  Paul,  various  attempts  have 
been  made  to  describe  a  sea  voyage.  It  is 
something  that  is  so  thoroughly  felt  that  a 
mere  personal  record  of  feelings  seems  a 
mockery. 

The  genial  old  pilot — an  ideal  sea  dog — 
was  lowered  into  his  boat  just  outside  the 
harbor,  laden  with  last  messages  to  friends 
behind.  When  I  handed  him  a  letter  for  mother, 
I  felt  as  if  I  were  bound  for  eternity.  Once 
out  of  sight  of  land,  the  ocean  appeared  very 
calm,  but  the  big  steamer  began  rocking  like 
a  cradle.  The  "feeling"  came  on  insidiously, 
and  I  soon  retired  below,  trying  to  smile,  as 
I  left  some  new  friends  in  steamer  chairs  on 
deck. 

I  had  often  sung  about  the  deep  blue  sea, 
but    had   never   realized   what   it   was   before. 

186 


THE   MINOR   CHORD  187 

The  blue  is  almost  an  indigo,  and  seems  to  color 
even  the  white-crested  foam  in  the  vessel's 
wake.  The  first  day  at  sea  is  never  the  most 
sociable  of  the  voyage.  There  is  always  a 
reserve  that  needs  to  be  driven  away  by  the 
ocean  air.  The  trumpet-call  for  meals  is 
heard  regularly,  although  few  respond  the  first 
days.  After  my  attack  of  mal  de  mer  the 
motion  of  the  steamer  began  to  feel  like  the  old 
swing  at  home,  and  I  quite  enjoyed  it.  Con- 
certs were  given  in  the  saloon  as  the  patients 
recovered  from  the  throes  of  sea-sickness  and 
attained  enormous  appetites  and  a  desire  for 
human  companionship.  We  learn  in  the  idle 
days  spent  in  crossing  the  Atlantic  more 
personal  and  biographical  information  from 
fellow-passengers  than  they  would  be  likely 
to  relate  otherwise  in  a  lifetime.  The  company 
on  board  were  very  agreeable,  and  we  began 
to  feel  like  one  large  family,  and  conversed 
pleasantly  on  musical,  literary  and  personal 
matters.  It  was  altogether  entertaining. 
While  there  were  many  interesting  men  on 
board,  my  fancy  was  taken  with  a  fair-haired 
young  fellow  of  whom  no  one  seemed  to  take 


188  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

much  notice.  His  loneliness  created  a  bond  of 
sympathy  between  us,  and  we  soon  became 
friends. 

*'Aren't  you  a  singer.?"  he  asked,  looking 
at  me  earnestly. 

"I  hope  to  be  some  day,"  I  replied. 

"I  think,"  he  said  shyly,  "that  you  must  be 
Madame  Helvina.  My  mother  heard  you  in 
'The  Creation'  in  Boston,  and  she  says  you  are 
going  to  be  a  great  singer.  My  mother  is  a 
musician." 

Bless  his  heart!  He  struck  my  weak  point — 
mother-love — and  I  could  have  hugged  him 
for  those  words. 

"Tell  me  about  your  mother,"  I  said, 
interested. 

"She  is  a  Polish  woman.  I  am  American 
born,  but  am  now  on  my  way  to  join  my  par- 
ents, who  have  returned  to  Poland.  It's  a 
poor  place  for  musicians,  but  mother  recently 
inherited  the  old  home,  and  they  have  decided 
to  go  there  to  live." 

"Do  you  inherit  j'our  mother's  musical 
taste  and  do  you  sing.^"  I  asked,  with  that  in- 
difference of  a  feminine  cross-examination. 


THE  MINOR   CHORD  189 

"No,  I  am  a  violinist.' 

We  passed  many  happy  hours  together. 
He  played  and  I  sang,  sometimes  prevailing 
on  him  to  join  me  in  his  rich  tenor. 

"Why  don't  you  develop  your  voice .^"  I 
asked  one  day. 

"Because,"  he  answered  regretfully,  "my 
father  objects.  He  was  an  operatic  tenor  once, 
and  I  suppose  has  good  reason  for  not  wanting 
me  to  become  a  singer,  although  I  love  to  sing." 

"Well,  Gene,"  said  I,  for  that  was  his  name, 
"you  must  sing.    Study  the  great  art — for  me!" 

I  pressed  his  hand  and  he  promised  to  do  as 
I  wished. 

The  men  in  the  smoking-room  continued 
their  games  until  late  at  night.  During  the 
day  they  made  wagers  on  every  possible  inci- 
dent which  involved  doubt — on  the  number 
of  miles  the  ship  would  go,  on  how  many  vessels 
we  would  sight  during  the  day,  on  fog  or  no 
fog;  and  it  reached  my  ears  that  wagers  were 
pending  as  to  whether  or  not  the  fair-haired 
young  Pole  would  win  the  hand  of  the  singing 
lady  before  we  arrived  in  Southampton. 

W^as  I  so  much  of  a  flirt .^     It  provoked  me. 


100  THE   MINOR  CHORD 

and  I  determined  to  hold  in  check  even  the 
pleasant  artistic  acquaintance  of  my  first  sea 
voj'age. 

It  was  with  no  little  emotion  that  I  first 
gazed  on  England,  the  home  of  my  forefathers ! 
Even  the  bleak,  bare  cliffs  of  Portland  Bill 
seemed  fascinating  as  we  sailed  up  the  Channel. 

At  the  landing,  after  the  blue-capped  Cus- 
toms officer  had  finished  the  examination  of 
his  portmanteau,  Gene  Paroski  was  in  haste 
to  catch  his  train,  which  was  waiting. 

"Madame  Helvina,  I  am  going,  and — and—" 

He  stood  bashfully  in  front  of  me,  cap  in 
hand. 

The  men  from  the  smoking-room  caught  sight 
of  us  and  looked  for  the  parson.  They  had 
lost  their  wager. 

"Don't  forget  that  voice,"  I  said,  shaking 
his  hand,  "and  we'll  sing  together  again  some 
time,  perhaps.     Good-bye." 

From  the  train  he  waved  his  hand  to  me 
and  was  gone  before  I  boarded  the  London 
train. 

It  was  my  first  meeting  with  one  who  I  felt 
would  become  a  famous  tenor. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

The  Boat  Race 

10ND0N!  An  American  is  often  at  first 
,  disgusted  and  later  falls  in  love  with 
the  great  city.  There  is  only  one  London 
on  earth.  The  crush  of  vehicles,  the  lamp-post 
islands  in  the  center  of  the  streets,  Old  Father 
Thames  with  the  tide  in  and  out,  Trafalgar 
Square,  Piccadilly  Circus — it  all  rushes  back  to 
me.   All  my  life  I  had  longed  to  visit  London ! 

My  grandfather  lived  a  short  distance  from 
London,  in  one  of  the  prettiest  little  villages 
in  England,  on  the  banks  of  the  classic  Thames. 
He  had  seen  seventy  summers,  and  was  a  typi- 
cal jolly  Englishman.  His  proverbial  good- 
nature and  contented  mind  were  the  secret 
of  his  youthful  spirit  and  robust  health. 

"Welcome,  Minza!  welcome  to  Ashley !  How 
like  Robert  you  are!"  he  cried  as  he  greeted  me. 

Although  I  had  never  seen  him  before,  we 
were  drawn  closely  together  by  that  strong  tie 
of  blood  relationship. 

191 


192  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

I  am  afraid  at  first  that  I  was  not  as  diligent 
in  my  studies  as  I  might  have  been.  I  wan- 
dered down  past  the  old  bridge  where  father 
and  his  brothers  had  spent  many  happy  days 
in  their  youth.  Lord  Tonquay's  old  place, 
with  its  high  walls,  Stompy  Pond,  Birwood 
Park,  the  old  inns,  all  had  their  history.  I 
revelled  in  ancestral  scenes.  The  old  church- 
yard— the  moss-covered  gravestones  and  epi- 
taphs— the  simple  stone  that  marked  the 
resting-place  of  my  great-great-grandmother — 
all  this  was  awe-inspiring  even  to  an  American. 
I  found,  in  faded  ink,  among  the  old  records 
in  the  vestry,  the  date  of  father's  christening. 

Every  evening  grandfather  sat  in  the  ivy- 
covered  porch  through  the  long  summer  twi- 
light. One  night,  when  I  had  finished  singing 
for  him,  I  came  out  and  kissed  his  dear  old  face. 

"Grandpa,"  I  asked,  sitting  do^\^l  on  his 
knee,  "who  were  our  ancestors?" 

This  question  only  indicated  the  curiosity 
common  to  all  American  girls.  Of  course  they 
do  not  care  for  ancient  and  noble  lineage,  but 
they  would  "like  to  know"  just  for  curiosity. 

"They  do  say,"  said  grandpa  reflectively,  w^ith 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  193 

a  twinkle  in  his  eye,  "that  many  of  our  very 
ancient  ancestors  are  buried  in  Cornwall, 
and  that  they  were  a  branch  of  Lord  Grundy's 
family." 

"Ah,  but  who  were  we  before  that,  as  far 
back  as  the  time  of  William  the  Conqueror?" 
I  continued  inquisitively. 

"My  dear  Minza,"  said  grandfather,  as  if 
beginning  a  long  narrative,  "my  memory  does 
not  run  back  quite  so  far  as  that.  However, 
the  dove  and  the  linnet  is  our  coat  of  arms." 

"But  who  were  our  ancestors?" 

"You  inquisitive  little  minx!  And  do  you 
want  to  know  the  real  truth?  As  an  American, 
the  question  of  ancestry  ought  not  to  interest 
you  to  any  great  extent." 

"Well,  I  should  like  to  know,  grandpa — just 
out  of  curiosity,  you  know." 

"Oh,  indeed!  Well,  Minza,  the  earliest  Max- 
well that  we  have  any  trace  of  in  the  genea- 
logical investigations  was — a  Cornish  pirate!" 

"A  pirate!"  I  gasped. 

"Just  so — ha,  ha,  ha!  and  there's  a  lot  of  the 
piratical  blood  left  yet,"  and  he  laughed 
heartily  at  my  discomfiture. 


194  THE   MINOR   CHORD 

This  revelation  paralyzed  my  curiosity;  I 
asked  no  further  questions  and  discontinued 
my  studies  of  the  family  tree. 

The  next  day  I  attended  a  regatta  at  Ashley- 
on-Thames.  The  morning  brought  a  typical 
British  drizzle,  but  in  England  everything 
starts  punctually,  and  the  first  race  was  called 
during  a  heavy  shower  at  9.30.  It  was  a  single- 
scull  race.  The  contestants  were  brawny  fel- 
lows, and  their  bare  knees  seemed  higher 
than  their  heads  as  they  pulled  the  long  narrow 
shell,  almost  bounding  through  the  water. 
It  was  a  close  and  exciting  race,  and  a  shot 
fired  when  the  first  boat  crossed  the  line  an- 
nounced the  finish.  Later  in  the  day  the  river 
was  filled  with  steam  launches  from  London, 
and  row-boats  from  neighboring  towns.  There 
were  also  many  punts,  which  resemble  the 
Venetian  gondola,  and  which  are  pushed  along 
by  means  of  a  long  pole.  It  was  altogether  a 
gala  day,  and  the  broad  English  dialect  almost 
made  me  feel  as  if  I  were  in  a  foreign  land; 
I  could  scarcely  understand  a  word  of  the 
English  as  spoken  among  the  boatmen. 

When  the  race  was  called  between  the  Ash- 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  195 

ley  Blues  and  the  Rushtons,  there  was  great 
excitement.  It  was  the  event  of  the  day.  All 
craned  their  necks  to  see  the  contest  between 
the  rival  towns.  The  Ashley  crew  wore  blue 
shirts  and  the  Rushtons  red.  I  was  in  a  punt 
in  mid-stream.  Grandpa  had  sent  the  garden- 
er's boy  to  look  out  for  me.  I  chose  the  Blues 
as  my  favorites  and  stepped  on  the  seat  of  the 
boat  to  obtain  a  better  view  of  them  as  they 
passed  by  on  their  way  to  the  starting-post. 
I  turned,  slipped — a  splash — and  I  was  in  the 
water. 

The  thoughts  of  a  lifetime  flashed  through 
my  mind  in  those  seconds.  The  leader  of  the 
Ashley  Blues  jumped  from  his  seat,  nearly 
upsetting  his  comrades  in  the  shell,  and  soon 
landed  me  safely  on  shore.  Awkward  and 
ashamed,  I  stood  looking  at  him,  with  my 
skirts   dripping. 

"Are  you  all  right?"  he  asked,  as  the  crowd 
pushed  forward. 

"Yes,  thank  you,"  I  said,  trying  to  make  the 
best  of  my  appearance. 

"Permit  me  to  call  a  carriage,"  he  said,  as  I 
started  for  the  house,  which  was  nearby. 


196  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

"Don't  let  me  hinder  the  race,"  I  protested. 

"Bother  the  race!"  he  said,  walking  by  my 
side  toward  the  house.    "Let  it  wait." 

"How  can  I  ever  thank  you?"  I  said  when 
he  turned  at  the  gate  to  leave  me. 

"Oh,  never  mind  that!  See  that  you  don't 
catch  cold  from  your  bath.  I'll  call  tomorrow, 
if  I  may,  to  see  how  you  are." 

He  raised  his  cap  and  was  gone. 

"Well,  well,  my  girl,  what's  this?"  said 
grandpa,  coming  to  meet  me  and  thumping 
his  cane. 

"Fell   overboard,   grandpa." 

"What!  and  where  is  James?  Are  you  wet?" 
he  said,  touching  my  dripping  gown.  "Well, 
I  never!  Go  and  change  your  things  and  come 
and  have  a  cup  o'  tea." 

Some  of  the  young  ladies  in  the  neighbor- 
hood were  so  cruel  as  to  remark:  "Ah,  that's 
the  way  of  these  impudent  American  girls; 
that's  how  they  catch  our  handsome  young 
men.  They  fall  overboard  and  are  fished  out. 
They  are  always  fishing." 

The  Ashley  Blues  won.  Mr.  Waldo,  for  that 
was  my  rescuer's  name,  came  to  tell  me  so  that 


THE   MINOR   CHORD  197 

evening,  and  he  smoked  his  pipe  witli  grandpa 
on  the  porch  while  I  sang. 

On  parting,  he  looked  at  me  intently  and 
held  my  hand  quite  too  long,  I  thought. 

"Good-night,  Mr.  Waldo,"  I  said  lightly. 
"I  wi.>h  my  husband  were  here  to  thank  my 
rescuer." 

He  dropped  my  hand  abruptly  and  left  me 
with  a  hurried  "Good-night." 


CHAPTER  XXII 
My  Debut 

EVERY  morning  as  the  dear  old  landscape 
of  Ashley  and  the  Thames  greeted  my 
eyes,  it  all  seemed  like  a  happy  dream. 
The  coaches  from  London  were  laden  with 
merry  throngs  of  tourists,  and  I  began  to  envy 
them.  The  purpose  of  my  life  was  beginning 
to  be  a  burden  again;  there  are  times  when  we 
reflect,  *Ts  the  game  worth  the  candle?"  But  I 
had  determined  to  consecrate  my  life  to  music, 
and  the  singer,  like  the  author,  the  barrister, 
the  gymnast,  or  even  the  prize-fighter,  must 
always  "go  into  training." 

In  another  week  I  was  to  be  on  my  way 
to  Milan  to  complete  my  studies  in  repertoire. 
The  young  "Ashley  Blue,"  Mr.  Waldo,  called 
one  afternoon,  greatly  to  my  surprise,  until  I 
learned  that  grandfather  had  told  him  I  was 
a  widow.  He  was  gently  sympathetic,  and  I 
could  not  be  rude  to  such  a  handsome  young 
fellow.     Of   course,   I   may   have  enjoyed    his 

198 


THE  IMINOR  CHORD  199 

company,  but  then,  you  know,  he  had  saved 
mj^  Hfe. 

"I  am  going  on  the  Continent,  too,"  he  said 
as  we  were  about  to  part  under  the  dear  old 
oak  trees  in  the  park.  "We  will  see  each  other 
there,"  he  whispered. 

Men  have  a  way  of  putting  a  woman  on 
the  defensive.  His  eyes  were  eloquent.  Why 
are  men  always  falling  in  love? 

"No,"  I  said  firmly.  "I  must  work  with  all 
my  concentrated  energy.  No  more  pleasure 
now.    Some  day  we  may  meet  again." 

"Some  day!"  he  echoed  sadly. 

On  my  journey  to  Milan  I  met  many  family 
parties  traveling  about  with  nothing  in  view 
but  pleasure.  Pleasure — always  pleasure — was 
their  sole  pursuit  in  life!  Their  happy  faces 
always  made  me  keenly  envious,  and  set  me 
to  longing  for  that  sweet-faced  little  mother  in 
the  West.  How  I  wished  she  could  be  with  me. 

The  busy  periods  of  our  lives  are  always 
the  most  difficult  to  describe.  My  studies  that 
winter  were  simply  a  round  of  endless  hard 
work,  trying  to  master  the  Italian  language, 
until  even  the  practice  of  scales  and  exercises 


200  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

became  a  positive  relief.  The  trills  bothered 
me,  until  I  longed  for  a  magic  spell  to  give 
me  a  bird's  throat. 

The  day's  work  was  long  and  I  fairly  hun- 
gered for  one  word  of  English  with  the  real 
American  accent! 

The  dear  old  Italian  teachers  were  patient. 
They  inspired  me  with  a  true  passion  for  music. 
An  Italian  has  a  love  for  music  such  as  no 
other  nationality  seems  to  possess  in  like 
measure. 

The  dreamy,  soft  sunlight  of  afternoon  and 
the  pale  liquid  moonlight  in  Italy — it  is  all 
music.  Young  lovers  passed  my  window, 
murmuring  in  soft,  musical  Italian.  From 
them  I  caught  the  inspiration  for  my  operatic 
debut.  I  studied  every  glance,  every  motion, 
hours  at  a  time — for  art's  sake. 

A  number  of  letters  was  received  regularly 
from  home,  but  they  seemed  to  be  written 
almost  in  a  foreign  language.  I  had  so  steeped 
my  brain  in  the  study  of  Italian  that  I  began 
to  fear  I  would  forget  my  English. 

In  one  of  mother's  letters  during  the  follow- 
ing spring  she  wrote:    "I  think  it  is  quite  time 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  201 

that  you   made  your  debut,   Minza;    you   are 
getting  on  in  years." 

Growing  old!  How  a  lonely  woman  dreads 
age!  With  her,  there  is  no  responsive  mother 
love,  there  are  no  little  arms  about  her  neck 
to  compensate  for  gray  hairs  and  wrinkles. 
Oh,  mothers,  mothers!  you  may  be  worn  out 
with  the  cries  and  boisterous  play  of  your  little 
ones,  but  in  them  you  have  the  only  true 
happiness  known  to  woman.  A  pure  mother- 
love  is  the  nearest  approach  to  heavenly 
happiness. 

Mother's  letter  decided  it,  and  the  next  day 
I  said  to  my  tutor: 

"I  want  to  make  my  debut  this  season." 

He  looked  at  me,  rather  startled. 

"No,  no,"  he  protested,  "you  are  not  fin- 
ished, madam.  You  must  dazzle  the  world. 
Your  trills  need  more  finish.  Your  voice  is 
not  strong  enough  to  stand  the  strain  and  blend 
with  those  shrieking,  bellowing  Germans." 

He  disliked  the  Germans. 

There  was  another  reason  why  I  was  eager 
to  make  that  debut.  I  had  a  rival.  She  was  a 
pretty  girl,  with  plenty  of  money  and  friends, 


202  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

and  her  voice  was  really  captivating,  but  I 
will  confess  I  could  not  admire  her.  She  was 
announced  to  appear  later  in  the  season,  and 
I  wanted  to  come  out  first  and  settle  my 
fate  before  I  had  to  suffer  a  contrast.  My  weak 
point  was  in  acting — I  was  awkward  and  could 
only  take  slow  and  dignified  roles. 

The  tenor  with  whom  I  rehearsed  was  an 
interesting  fellow.  His  face  was  pitted  with 
smallpox,  although  on  the  stage  he  made  a 
handsome  lover.  His  Alfredo  in  "La  Traviata" 
was  a  finished  expression,  and  our  voices 
blended  well,  though  during  rehearsals  I  found 
it  difficult  to  put  any  spirit  and  enthusiasm 
into  our  love  scene. 

"You  must  have  Signor  Tonza,"  said  my 
teacher,  "your  voices  blend  like  a  chime  of 
bells — so  beautiful,  exquisite!" 

The  last  dress  rehearsal  had  ended.  My 
teacher,  Signor  Gellani,  was  to  direct  the  opera. 
How  his  baton  inspired  me!  I  found  every 
retard,  and  soon  cultivated  the  art  of  watching 
the  wave  of  that  wand  without  looking  at  him. 
The  rehearsal  was  anything  but  encouraging; 
my  high  notes  seemed  shrill,  and  a  huskiness 


THE   MINOR   CHORD  203 

that  would  ruin  any  debutante  was  apparent 
in  the  lower  tones.  The  im'presario  wanted  to 
postpone  the  opera.  "No,"  I  said,  "my  fate 
must  be  decided  tonight." 

In  a  tremor  I  was  "made  up"  in  the  dressing- 
room  that  night.  The  maid  brought  my  slip- 
pers first,  and  after  carefully  adjusting  the 
blonde  wig,  announced  me  as  "beautiful."  I 
would  wear  no  flowers. 

"Just  a  simple  rose,  signorita!"  pleaded  the 
maid. 

"No,  I  must  win  my  laurels  first,"  I  whis- 
pered, half  to  myself. 

Softly  the  orchestra  began  the  adagio  pre- 
Iiidio.  The  first  "call"  was  made.  As  the 
tempo  increased,  my  heart  beat  faster  and  faster. 
The  dashing  chromatic  runs  of  the  Introduzione 
had  just  commenced  when  the  call-boy  ap- 
peared. The  curtain  bell  tapped  as  we  reached 
the  wings,  and  I  hastily  threw^  away  the  lemon 
I  had  been  enjoying  and  took  my  position  as 
the  curtain  was  raised  and  the  male  com  began. 

A  short  prayer  before  my  first  tone!  The 
wand  fell  before  my  eyes.  The  crisis  of  a  life 
had  come.     Was  I  to  succeed?     I  responded 


204  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

to  the  signal  of  the  baton — which  danced  before 
my  eyes  Hke  a  black  demon — and  sang  the  open- 
ing and  touching  phrase  of  Violetta's  welcome. 

Many  times  had  I  sung  those  notes,  but 
never  before  had  I  realized  that,  although  a 
joyous  response  of  welcome,  it  was  in  a  minor 
key. 

I  cannot  recall  many  incidents  of  that 
night.  The  dear  old  director  was  so  furiously 
excited  that  he  nearly  lost  his  place. 

I  gathered  all  my  strength  for  the  duett ino 
with  Alfredo.  It  must  be  music.  The  singing 
of  birds  seemed  to  break  upon  me,  and  I  half 
closed  my  eyes  to  the  blinding  sea  of  light  in 
front,  for  the  supreme  moment  had  come,  and 
the  high  note  was  approaching.  I  took  a  care- 
ful breath  and  sustained  the  note  easily  with 
a  crescendo  and  diminuendo.  My  mind  flashed 
on  every  phrase  of  the  score.  The  orchestra 
seemed  sympathetic,  so  that  I  soon  forgot  the 
notes  themselves — the  glides,  the  rests,  the 
holds;  my  soul  seemed  fired  with  the  spirit  of 
the  dashing,  defiant  Violetta.  In  fact,  my  chief 
concern  was  the  precise  location  of  my  hands 
and  feet  rather  than  the  score  of  the  music.    It 


THE   MINOR   CHORD  205 

is  the  last  phrase  tliat  usually  impresses  the 
audience  for  good  or  ill.  I  threw  into  the  song 
a  tone  that  expressed  despairing  passion,  but 
which  can  never  be  written  in  notes — a  wail 
of  despairing  love.  With  it  came  a  vision  of 
mother  and  home,  and  tears  burst  through  my 
heavily  pencilled  eyelashes.  I  held  the  last 
two  notes  fervently,  loth  to  leave  them.  Then 
I  forgot  all  anxiety  as  to  whether  they  were 
falling  short  of  the  mark.  What  mockery 
there  seemed  in  those  last  two  measures  of 
the  opera,  "How  joyful!" 

It,  too,  was  a  minor  refrain. 

Even  the  accelerated  dash  of  the  orchestral 
finale  as  the  curtain  fell  was  a  crash — a  Minor 
Chord. 

There  was  an  outburst  of  applause  when 
the  curtain  went  down  upon  the  finale.  Hand- 
kerchiefs waved,  the  loyal  little  colony  of 
Americans  who  were  present  were  fairlj^  frantic, 
and  as  I  stepped  before  the  curtain  I  was 
crowned  with  a  handsome  wreath  of  flowers. 
Dazed  by  the  rush  of  events,  I  had  almost 
forgotten  to  bow  my  acknowledgments  until  I 
was  reminded  by  Tonza,  who  had  led  me  on. 


206  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

A  few  moments  later  there  was  a  knock  at 
my  door. 

"Come  in,"  I  said  wearily. 

"Signorita  vas  e-exquizite!"  cried  Gellani 
excitedly.  "Ze  signorita's  a  great  prima!"  he 
continued,  dancing  around. 

The  musical  critics  scored  poor  Tonza  se- 
verely the  next  dav,  with  an  occasional  modi- 
fication  in  reference  to  the  beautiful  and 
plucky  young  American  prima.  But  I  had  made 
my  operatic  debut,  and  now  my  career  began 
in  earnest. 

That  very  night  I  wrote  to  mother,  enclosing 
translations  of  the  most  favorable  portions  of 
the  criticisms.  I  also  wrote  to  Howard  Wit- 
taker,  my  newspaper  friend  at  Boston,  and 
also  to  my  enthusiastic  benefactor,  Mr.  Bur- 
lingame.  Before  my  letter  reached  Howard 
he  had  had  syndicate  letters  and  correspond- 
ence wired  all  over  the  United  States:  "Great 
Triumph  in  Italy  by  the  Young  and  Beautiful 
American   Prima  Donna,   Madame   Helvina!" 

Here  is  where  the  deception  of  my  stage 
biography  began.  He  knew  little  of  my  real 
history,  and,  like  the  good  American  newspaper 


THE  MINOR   CHORD  207 

man,  arranged  a  romantic  career  for  me. 
Howard  was  warm-hearted  and  impulsive,  and 
I  never  had  the  heart  to  contradict  his  fairy 
stories. 

"I  have  taken  the  flood  tide  to  work  up  a 
great  reception  for  you  when  you  return,"  he 
wrote,  "and  you  will  be  received  with  almost 
roval  honors." 

He  kept  aglow  a  curiosity  concerning  my 
personality,  which  always  increases  public 
interest,  and  gave  my  career  enough  mystery 
to  whet  the  public  appetite.  Even  mother  did 
not  recognize  her  own  daughter  in  the  news- 
jxiper  articles,  and  today  very  few  of  the  old 
Smithville  friends  know  that  "Madame  Hel- 
vina"  is  Minza  Maxwell. 

I  dreamed  much  about  that  time  of  my 
lost  husband  and  wandered  in  my  visions  among 
many  wild  and  savage  scenes  in  search  of  the 
frenzied  aeronaut,  who  had  been  so  near  and 
dear  to  me,  and  who  had  so  suddenly  dropped 
out  of  my  life  altogether.  Generally  he  was 
fleeing  away  before  my  pursuing,  weary  and 
flagging  feet;  over  simoon,  parched  deserts, 
his  gay  balloon  rose  and  wavered;  across  jagged 


208  THE   MINOR   CHORD 

ice  fields  it  kept  just  out  of  hail  of  my  parched 
and  husky  throat;  up  Alpine  gorges  it  rose 
amid  the  yodeling  of  wondering  shepherds 
and  the  screaming  of  startled  and  angry  eagles, 
disturbed  for  the  first  time  in  their  inaccessible 
nests. 


CHAPTER   XXIII 

Life  in  Paris 

WE  naturally  cling  to  that  role  or  spe- 
cialty which  has  first  given  us  "a 
success."  The  author  who  makes  a 
hit  with  a  certain  idea  or  innovation  seems 
forever  after  to  have  that  idea  hovering  about 
him,  and  its  evanescent  or  sterling  excellence 
remains  in  his  style  throughout  life. 

We  may  theorize  upon  the  essentials  and 
ingredients  of  success;  immortalize  hard  work, 
genius,  and  careful  study;  but  thousands  sink 
into  obloquy,  into  unknown  graves,  whose 
efforts  are  perhaps  more  admirable  and  more 
nearly  perfect,  from  a  theoretical  standpoint, 
than  are  the  efforts  of  those  who  from  flint 
and  steel  strike  out  the  fire  of  fame. 

My  success  was  in  many  ways  a  chance; 
but  it  struck  a  popular  vein,  and  my  ability 
was  equal  to  the  emergency  presented. 

The  critics  vigorously  attacked  me  and  said 
that   I   was  awkward   in  my  acting   and   had 

209 


210  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

evidently  never  known  the  joys  of  a  real  love 
or  the  art  of  love-making.  To  strengthen  this 
weakness  I  decided  to  go  to  Paris  and  study 
with  Delsarte,  and  to  learn  how  to  pose  and  act 
gracefully  and  effectively  in  the  varied  scenes 
of  operatic  performance. 

The  course  of  lessons  which  I  took  in  posing 
and  in  plastiques  was  arduous.  It  seemed  as 
if  I  had  every  natural  motion  to  reform.  My 
fingers  must  not  spread  out;  my  arms  must 
wave  in  curves — no  sharp  corners  in  Art,  no 
rectangular  motions — all  in  graceful  arcs,  as 
the  sky  above.  I  must  confess  I  grew  to  enjoy 
it,  and  the  staid  old  butler  who  accompanied 
me  on  my  walks  lost  his  hat  several  times  when 
I  took  a  sudden  and  erratic  fancv  to  box,  for 
even  this  was  Delsarte,  you  know. 

What  a  flood  of  historical  associations  were 
suggested  as  I  walked  through  the  streets  of 
Paris!  The  boulevards  were  fringed  with 
tables  and  chairs,  and  everyone  seemed  to  be 
drinking,  eating,  and  chatting.  The  Theatre 
National,  with  its  imperious  bronze  figures, 
fascinated  me.  Should  I  ever  sing  in  that  temple 
of  opera .^    At  Pere-la-Chaise  I  came  upon  the 


THE   MINOR   CHORD  211 

tomb  of  Heloise  and  Abelard.  Under  a  canopy 
of  stones  from  the  monastery  of  Abelard  were 
the  two  recumbent  figures — monk  and  nun. 
They  were  buried  side  by  side,  the  emblem 
of  disappointed  love  during  the  ages.  The 
story  is  old;  and  as  I  stood  looking  over  the 
iron  fence  at  the  beautiful  flowers,  young 
French  girls  with  pensive  eyes  passed  by  and 
flung  withered  bouquets  upon  the  dingy  and 
century -wasted  tomb. 

It  was  nearly  dark  when  I  left  behind  me  the 
shadows  of  the  cemetery. 

That  night,  while  I  was  sitting  safe  in  my 
snug  and  cosy  room  with  my  music,  dismal 
feelings  were  dispelled,  for  there  was  work. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  knock  at  my  door. 
It  was  a  woman  clad  but  poorly  and  about  to 
become  a  mother. 

"Madame  Helvina,"  she  said  in  pure  Ameri- 
can English,  "it  is  you  or  the  Seine" — this  with 
a  tragic  gesture,  pointing  to  the  river. 

'  What  is  the  matter?"  I  asked,  bidding  her 
come  in. 

"Two  years  ago,"  she  said  slowly,  "I  came 
to   Paris   from   America,   a   happy,   ambitious 


212  THE   MINOR   CHORD 

girl.  I  wanted  to  be  an  actress.  I  studied  and 
made  my  appearance,  but,  oh,  the  temptations, 
madame!  It's  the  old  story,  and  here  I  am, 
ready  to  die." 

She  broke  down  and  sobbed  tempestuously. 
I  knew  something  of  the  troubles  of  an  actress. 
Worshipped,  flattered  and  adored,  she  has 
temptations  never  dreamed  of  by  those  who 
so  heartlessly  condemn  her. 

I  asked  for  her  story  in  detail.  She  said 
her  name  was  Lila  Bingham,  and  when  she 
referred  to  the  young  girlhood  lover  whom 
she  had  left  behind  in  America  and  drew 
from  her  breast  a  picture  of  her  mother,  I  was 
soon  crying  with  her. 

My  means  were  scant,  but  she  should  not 
be  turned  out  into  the  street. 

Her  little  one  was  born  a  few  days  afterward. 
Lila  improved  slowly,  but  her  face  grew  hard 
and  solemn  as  she  nursed  the  child.  Three 
or  four  weeks  later,  on  my  return  from  a  lesson, 
I  found  Lila  gone  and  the  baby  in  its  cradle, 
crying  pitifully.  For  some  weeks  I  waited 
anxiously  for  news  of  her,  but  nothing  could 
be  learned  as  to  where  she  had  gone.      I  com- 


THE   MINOR  CHORD  213 

municated  the  matter  to  the  pohce,  and  one 
day  received  a  message  from  the  gendarmerie 
to  call  at  once  at  the  Morgue. 

How  many  final  chapters  of  human  misery 
display  their  Finis  behind  those  glass  parti- 
tions! The  row  of  ghastly  faces  look  out 
upon  you  with  all  the  conceivable  horrors  of 
death.  On  the  last  table  in  the  corner  was  the 
face  I  sought.  There  lay  Lila — beautiful  in 
death;  the  cruel  waters  of  the  Seine  seemed 
to  have  washed  away  the  deep  lines  of  sor- 
row which  so  lately  had  come  into  her  sweet 
face. 

It  was  the  old  story  over  again,  and  now 
my  thoughts  were  for  the  child.  I  prepared  to 
be  a  real  mother  to  him,  and  gave  him  the  name 
of  Tim;  but  two  weeks  later  I  followed  the  tiny 
coffin  to  the  cemetery.  The  little  life  had  faded 
like  a  tender  flower. 

The  death  of  the  helpless  little  waif  had 
occasioned  me  great  anxiety.  I  should  never 
have  been  able  to  go  through  it  all  had  it  not 
been  for  Mrs.  Campbell,  an  elderly  Scotch 
lady  then  residing  in  Paris,  who  occupied 
the  rooms  adjoining  mine.     She  always  wore 


214  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

a  neat  white  widow's  cap,  and  her  kind  heart 
sparkled  in  her  smiles,  and  even  seemed  to 
glisten  through  the  gold-rimmed  spectacles. 

It  was  with  Mrs.  Campbell  in  Paris  that  I 
witnessed  a  balloon  ascent.  It  brought  back 
many  old  and  sad  memories  of  the  husband 
to  whom  I  was  still  wedded,  if,  indeed,  he  was 
still  alive.  A  young  girl  was  to  make  the 
ascent  and  it  was  made  a  fete  day  in  the  Bois  de 
Boulogne.  The  great  swaying  balloon  started 
on  its  aerial  voyage  slowly  and  majestically. 
I  shuddered  as  it  lurched  now  this  way  and 
now  that,  on,  up,  up  into  the  clouds!  Had 
the  great  Minza  balloon  gone  waveringly  up 
into  the  air  abysses  only  to  deposit  its  crushed 
and  lifeless  occupants  on  some  inaccessible 
escapement  or  impassable  glacier.'* 

"Why  do  they  allow  such  nonsense?"  said 
Mrs.  Campbell  excitedly.  'T  call  anyone 
crazy  that  would  venture  on  such  an  expedi- 
tion.   It  ought  not  to  be  permitted." 

"Yes,"  I  replied  wearily,  "but  you  know 
anything  is  allowed  that  makes  money  and 
advances  science." 

"Well,  it's  tempting  Providence,"  persisted 


THE   MINOR   CHORD  215 

the  dear  old  lady,  "and  a  man  who  would  make 
a  balloon  has  sold  himself  to  the  devil!" 

Poor  Mrs.  Campbell!  She  could  not  know 
how  every  word  went  to  my  heart.  Was  I 
widow  or  wife.^*  Had  I  done  my  full  duty  in 
trying  to  find  poor  Robert?  We  often  meet 
people  who  become  a  conscience  to  us,  and 
Mrs.  Campbell  was  mine.  Should  I  tell  her 
my  story?  That  night  I  fell  asleep  at  her  side — 
for  she  now  shared  my  rooms — dreaming 
of  my  lost  husband  and  his  balloons. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

At  Covent  Garden 

WHEN  success  is  once  under  full  head- 
way, it  seems  to  be  cumulative.  The 
world  worships  success.  While  in 
Paris  I  received  the  offer  of  an  engagement  at 
Covent  Garden  in  London.  I  had  long  looked 
forward  to  it,  for  now  my  dear  grandfather 
should  go  to  the  opera,  although  he  held  to  the 
old  ideas  that  an  actress  was  de  trop.  He  had 
served  many  years  as  butler  in  an  aristocratic 
family.  His  faithful  life  of  service  had  devel- 
oped a  gentle  character  and  I  consoled  myself 
for  our  lack  of  pedigree  by  believing  that  the 
best  people  must  come  from  servants,  as  they 
transmit  virtues,  while  their  masters  inherit 
and  re-inherit  the  vices  of  luxury  so  that  every 
few  generations  the  servant  becomes  master 
and  the  master  servant.  On  the  first  night  of 
my  engagement  at  Covent  Garden  there  were 
present  members  of  the  Royal  Family,  and 
while    I    affected    unconcern,    I    must    confess 

216 


THE   MINOR   CHORD  217 

that  I  was  nervous.  The  opera  to  be  given 
was  "Lohengrin."  Elsa  was  my  favorite  role, 
and  how  happy  it  made  me  to  see  grandfather's 
bright,  beaming  face  in  one  of  those  scarlet 
pkish-Hned  boxes!  His  big  bkie  eyes  were 
wide  open  Hke  a  child's  with  wonderment. 
He  reminded  me  of  father.  In  the  box  with 
him  was  Mrs.  Campbelh  His  courtly  gallantry 
was  quite  true  to  the  ideals  of  the  old  school, 
and  Mrs.  Campbell's  face  beamed  brighter 
than  ever. 

The  violins  began  with  the  plaintive  high 
notes  of  the  opening  measures,  the  chords 
began  to  gather  for  a  crash  and  climax  such  as 
only  Wagner's  master  spirit  could  embody 
in  a  musical  score. 

I  instinctively  prayed  as  the  soft,  sad  notes 
which  preceded  my  entrance  were  given  by 
the  orchestra. 

Attired  in  pure,  unadorned  white,  I  stepped 
from  behind  the  wings.  I  studied  every  note 
before  reaching  it.  "Music,  my  heart!  music!" 
was  my  crj-. 

I  watched  for  the  response.  It  was  to  grandpa 
that  I  was  singing.    I  caught  his  eyes  sparkling 


218  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

with  tears,  and  it  gave  me  a  thrill  of  delight. 
Every  pantomimic  action  of  the  opera  now 
seemed  easv.  The  tenor  was  rather  stiff  at 
first,  but  I  soon  had  him  devoted  to  me.  Our 
bridal  chamber  duet  was  the  best  we  had  ever 
rendered.  The  spirit  of  the  composer  seemed 
upon  us.  The  curly  wig  and  jaunty  cap  of 
Lohengrin  was  my  ideal  of  Tim,  and  I  threw 
myself  into  a  trance  of  childhood  once  more. 
The  quiet,  dazed  look — the  "innocent  Elsa" 
expression  which  I  had  rehearsed  for  hours 
before  a  glass — it  was  all  so  natural  to  me 
now.  No  matter  how  many  times  I  may  sing 
a  role,  there  is  always  some  particular  phrase 
that  I  dread,  and  once  it  is  passed  I  feel  a 
sense  of  relief.  The  duet  was  my  dread  that 
night,  but  it  proved  to  be  the  greatest  success 
of  the  evening. 

Grandpa  was  satisfied  and  I  was  happy, 
although  the  critics  were  rather  harsh  next  day. 

"Minza,  little  Minza!  Rob's  girl! — and  such 
a  singer !  I  never  dreamed  of  living  for  so  much 
happiness,"  said  grandpa  after  the  opera, 
embracing  me  as  father  always  did.  "So  like 
your  dear  grandma!     How  I    wish   she  were 


THE   MINOR   CHORD  219 

here!     Poor  mother!"  and  he  brushed  away  a 
tear. 

Grandma  was  buried  at  Ashley  in  the  httle 
churchyard  that  surrounded  the  old  ivy-clus- 
tered tower  of  St.  Helen's.  Her  only  living 
daughter  was  Aunt  Manda,  father's  sister, 
and  she  had  been  "in  service"  all  her  life. 
Father  used  to  tell  mother  that  his  sister  had 
almost  been  a  mother  to  the  Elferton  family, 
which  included  the  viscount  and  the  four 
daughters.  I  remember  hearing  father  say 
that  the  daughters  were  greatly  attached  to 
the  dear  old  lady,  who  had  grown  to  look  like 
Queen  Victoria. 

"My  young  ladies'  dogs,"  said  Aunt  Manda, 
one  day  when  I  met  her  by  appointment  in 
Hyde  Park.  There  were  ten  of  them  alto- 
gether— of  all  sorts  and  colors — out  for  their 
daily  airing.  "I  have  just  been  to  the  doctor 
for  little  Pete." 

"Oh,  indeed,"  I  remarked  bitterly.  "Well, 
they  have  all  the  luxuries  of  life." 

I  became  interested  in  these  four  young  ladies 
and  their  dogs.  Though  clever  and  beautiful, 
yet  they  led  empty  lives — they  simply  existed. 


220  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

waiting  for  the  matrimonial  market  to  be  more 
active,  in  the  meantime  concentrating  their 
affections  upon  dogs  rather  than  human 
beings. 

One  day  I  went  to  call  on  Aunt  Manda  at 
the  earl's  London  house.  I  entered  by  the 
servant's  door  at  the  rear.  We  took  tea  with 
the  housekeeper  and  upper  servants,  the  butler, 
the  valet  and  powdered  footman,  and  I  listened, 
amused,  to  their  gossip.  They  knew  more  about 
the  "goings  on"  of  English  aristocracy  than 
the  lords  and  ladies  themselves.  Every  car- 
riage and  coachman  was  known  to  them. 
Family  secrets  were  peddled  out  by  the  yard. 
We  had  scarcely  finished  tea  when  there  was 
a  commotion  outside  in  the  hall. 

"Maxwell,  Maxwell,  why  do  you  leave 
poor  Pete  alone?"  It  was  my  lady  reprimand- 
ing poor  auntie,  who  had  left  the  dog,  which 
did  not  look  worth  a  decent  burial,  and  in  the 
hum  of  conversation  at  the  table  auntie  had 
not  heard  the  bell  ring. 

"The  doctor  is  here,"  continued  my  lady, 
"and  you  must  follow  his  instructions." 

The  doctor  felt  Pete's  pulse  and  winked. 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  221 

In  the  beautiful  boudoir  upstairs  no  fewer 
than  ten  toy  poodles  revelled  in  luxurious  ease 
while  the  four  young  ladies  took  tea.  They 
kissed  the  dogs  and  drank  tea,  then  drank  tea 
and  kissed  the  dogs.  It  was  an  ideal  scene 
of  an  autocratic  lady's  passion  for  canines. 
True,  the  dog  is  a  faithful  friend  who  never 
reveals  a  secret.  Another  kiss  and  a  hug  for 
doggy.  Under  those  very  windows  were  a 
score  of  little  children — London  street  waifs — 
crying  and  starving  for  bread. 

"Maxwell,"  spoke  up  one  of  the  young 
ladies  in  a  rather  languid  and  irritable  tone, 
"vou  must  not  loiter  here.  Come,  bustle 
about;  attend  to  the  dogs  and  feed  them 
properly."  My  fist  instinctively  doubled.  My 
aunt  a  slave — a  keeper  of  dogs — for  these 
vacant,  idle  and  shiftless  beings  who  happened 
to  be  born  under  an  earl's  roof! 

I  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  viscount  as  he 
passed  by  the  door.  He  was  a  handsome 
young  fellow,  but  his  sister's  words  burned 
into  my  heart.  He  was  a  member  of  Parlia- 
ment— Lord  Hamper,  eldest  son  of  the  Earl  of 
Elferton. 


222  THE  MINOR   CHORD 

I  took  a  cab  home  and  arranged  that  auntie 
should  take  tea  with  me  on  the  following 
Wednesday. 

That  night,  after  the  opera,  a  card  was  pre- 
sented. "Lord  Hamper."  We  met.  My  eyes 
dropped — perhaps  I  had  put  an  extra  dimple 
in  my  cheeks.  I  tried  to  be  winsome.  He  was 
very  clever  and  sympathized  with  some  of  my 
pet  philanthropic  ideas.  He  called  the  next 
night  and  the  next.  It  was  becoming  truly 
interesting,  and  the  chorus  girls  all  gossiped 
as  to  how  cleverly  Madame  Helvina  had  angled 
for  the  son  of  an  English  earl.  Lord  Hamper 
was  a  musician,  and  I  confess  it  was  rather 
pleasant  to  receive  his  handsome  compliments 
and  attentions. 

"May  I  see  you  tomorrow?"  he  said  one 
Tuesday  night.  "I  have  something  important 
to  say  to  you." 

I  dropped  my  eyes  quickly  and  blushed. 

"Perhaps,"  I  murmured. 

"But  I  must.    I  have  come  to — " 

"Isn't  that  a  beautiful  likeness  of  Tonza?" 
I  broke  in,  anxious  to  change  the  subject  and 
pointing  to  a  photograph. 


THE  ^IINOR  CHORD  223 

"May  I  come  tomorrow?"  he  persisted. 

"Tea  at  four,"  I  answered  rising. 

"You  make  me  so  happy!"  he  said,  as  he 
bowed  himself  out. 

The  next  day  he  appeared  promptly  at  four 
o'clock. 

I  was  always  fond  of  making  tea  myself — 
it  reminded  me  of  childhood  days,  and  Lord 
Hamper  watched  me  with  interest — even  assist- 
ing me.  The  scene  was  altogether  charmingly 
domestic. 

I  was  about  to  pass  him  a  cup  of  tea. 

"Before  I  drink  a  drop,"  he  said  suddenly, 
"I  must  know  my  fate.  I — I  adore  you,  Mad- 
ame Helvina!  Will  you — will  you — "  In  his 
ardor  he  had  knocked  the  cup  from  my  hand  and 
its  contents  poured  down  his  shirt-front.  I 
nearly  laughed  outright.  Poor  fellow,  he  was 
very  much  in  earnest. 

"You  must  marry  me,"  he  pleaded,  rising  as 
he  made  an  effort  to  brush  away  the  stain,  and 
picked  up  the  empty  cup. 

"Well,  I'll  see,"  I  replied  coolly.  "Why,  I 
expected  more  company  to  tea,"  I  said,  endeav- 
oring to  set  matters  right. 


224  THE   MINOR   CHORD 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me?  I  shall  go  pres- 
ently, but  let  me  say  I  love  you  and  will  make 
you  happy  as  my  wife.  Say  the  word — my 
queen!"  Men  will  always  insist  on  the  posses- 
sive in  proposing. 

He  was  on  his  knees  again,  in  order  to  pro- 
long our  tete-a-tete^  and  determined  to  have  his 
say. 

At  that  moment  Aunt  Manda  bustled  in, 
with  her  delegation  of  ten  dogs,  from  a  walk 
in  the  Park. 

She  was  startled;  he  was  confounded. 

"My  Aunt  Manda,  Lord  Hamper,"  I  ex- 
plained, presenting  her  with  all  the  pomp  of 
court  life. 

"Why,  dear  me,"  he  exclaimed  to  me  aside, 
"she  is  my  sisters'  maid!" 

"Is  that  so.f*"  I  said  innocently.  "She  is 
my  own  flesh  and  blood,  my  father's  sister." 

"The  devil!"  he  gasped,  as  he  started  to  take 
his  leave,  with  scarcely  a  glance  at  Aunt  Manda. 

The  rumor  was  circulated  that  I  had  refused 
the  hand  of  an  earl's  son. 

Aunt  Manda  was  amazed  and  tried  bravely 
to  disown  me,  so  that  Lord  Hamper  should 


THE   MINOR   CHORD  225 

not  be  miserable.  But  she  could  not  change 
my  birthright.  I  was  Minza  Maxwell,  de- 
scended from  a  Cornish  pirate,  and  the  flesh 
and  blood  relation  of  English  servants;  but 
I  felt  all  American  that  day  and  proud  of  the 
fact  that  my  people  knew  the  honest  pride 
of  a  life  of  service. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

Berlin  and  Gene  Paroski 

AFTER  I  had  enjoyed  a  few  days'  rest  at 
j\  Ashley,  Howard  Wittaker,  my  Boston 
friend  and  patron,  made  his  appearance. 
He  had  written  me  several  times  that  I  needed 
a  business  manager,  and  he  now  announced 
that  he  would  assume  that  position. 

Now  that  my  debut  was  really  over  and  the 
critics  had  opened  their  heavy  artillery  upon 
me,  the  doors  of  the  large  European  theaters 
swung  open,  and  the  unending  contest  with 
astute  managers  and  hostile  rivals  began. 

From  London  I  went  to  Berlin,  which  city 
I  have  always  found  full  of  musical  appre- 
ciation and  many  attractions,  as  well  as  the 
center  of  a  military  power  and  organization, 
which  is  always  a  source  of  uneasiness  to  the 
diplomatists  of  other  nations.  The  handsome 
German  army  officers,  almost  invariably  wear- 
ingfspectacles  or  eyeglasses,  were  very  gallant 
and  often  very  scholarly  and  enthusiastic  in 

226 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  227 

their  pursuit  of  art,  literature  or  music,  as  well 
as  of  pleasure.  Berlin  severely  criticized  my 
"Elsa."  I'm  afraid  I  shed  a  few  tears  over 
the  sharper  stabs  at  my  failures,  real  or  pre- 
sumed, but  it  aroused  the  old  spirit.  The 
Germans  should  yet  praise  me  in  my  favorite 
Wagnerian  role. 

Everything  in  Berlin  was  strangely  attrac- 
tive; the  Thier  Garten,  with  its  delightful 
and  romantic  drives;  and  the  boats  on  the 
Spree  which  are  pushed  along  by  means  of  long 
poles.  Yes,  there  was  worse  drudgery  than  a 
prima  donna's  career!  The  weather-beaten 
old  palace,  the  splendid  statue  of  Victory,  the 
storied  thoroughfare  which  to  every  Prussian's 
heart  recalls  a  flood  of  grand,  quaint,  precious 
happenings,  Unter  den  Linden — all  these  were 
charming.  The  Germans  live  in  their  halls 
and  cafes,  and  their  wives  and  children  join 
freely  in  their  simple  pleasures.  A  few  glasses 
of  beer,  gingerbread,  sausage,  slices  of  spicy 
rye  bread,  and  the  father's  pipe,  these  they 
enjoy  by  the  hour,  listening,  it  may  be,  to  the 
music  of  a  great  orchestra  or  the  more  artistic 
strains  of  a  stray  band.    I  stole  a  few  hours  to 


228  THE  MINOR   CHORD 

visit  the  National  Gallery,  with  its  rooms 
radiating  from  a  center  like  the  spokes  of  a 
wheel.  The  pictures  thrilled  me,  and  I  quite 
fell  in  love  with  Art;  but  mv  life's  mission 
was  Music,  and  I  had  to  tear  myself  away  for 
rehearsals. 

I  shall  never  forget  one  experience  in  Unter 
den  Linden.  We  were  out  for  a  walk,  ]\Irs. 
Campbell  and  I,  and  at  last  saw  a  small  body 
of  Prussian  infantry  coming  down  the  street 
with  that  prompt,  manlj^  if  somewhat  heavy 
stride  which  characterizes  the  Bavarian  rifle- 
man. There  was  no  music,  but  the  ranks 
swept  past  in  perfect  alignment  and  exquisite 
time,  the  officers  in  place  scarcely  needing  to 
cast  a  stern  glance  here  and  there  to  keep 
their  men  in  perfect  order. 

I  felt  rather  than  saw  that  a  tall  man  had 
stopped  behind  us,  and  heard  him  murmur 
something  in  German,  in  which  the  word  "Giif 
was  especially  emphasized.  I  had  felt  the  influ- 
ence of  that  martial  power  and  inspiration 
which  the  view  of  a  fine  body  of  soldiery  always 
excites,  and  turning  to  Mrs.  Campbell  I  said, 
"How  I  wish  dear  father  could  see  these  men. 


THE   MINOR   CHORD  229 

He  is  another  man  when  he  hears  the  drums 
beat  and  the  rhythm  of  marching  soldiery." 

"And  mine,  too,"  said  Mrs.  Campbell  sadly, 
"poor  auld  mon,  though  I'm  thinkin'  he'll 
scarcely  be  able  to  be  about  much  now." 

"Pardon,  ladies,"  said  the  tall  man  politely, 
"are  you  English,  that  you  speak  of  veterans 
of  the  old  wars?'' 

"I  am  of  English  descent,"  I  said  a  little 
stiffly,  "but  my  father  was  a  volunteer  in  the 
United  States  army  during  the  Civil  War  and 
was  wounded  at  the  siege  of  Vicksburg." 

"Ah,  Madame,  that  was  a  great  siege,  an 
undying  honor  to  both  victor  and  vanquished; 
I  would  I  could  see  the  city  myself  and  go  over 
the  parallels  of  Grant  and  the  intrenchments 
of  Pemberton.  But  alas,"  and  he  said  it  with 
a  sigh,  "that  can  never  be." 

"But  why  not.'"  I  cried,  and  this  time  more 
cordially.  "They  are  saving  the  old  forts  and 
trenches  and  will  make  a  great  national  park 
of  the  lines.  The  regiments  and  states,  north 
and  south,  will  put  up  landmarks  and  memori- 
als, and  you  would  find  everything  complete 
to  study  it  all  out." 


230  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

"It  would  be  splendid,  Madam,"  he  agreed, 
"but  I  cannot  leave  Germany.  I  am  tied  here; 
at  least  it  seems  so  now.  And  vour  father,"  he 
said,  turning  to  Mrs.  Campbell,  "he  at  least 
was  a  British  soldier,  I  am  sure.''" 

"Indeed  he  was,  sir,  one  of  the  Scots  Guards 
that  fought  at  the  Alma  and  Balaclava.  Aye, 
and  had  his  share  o'  fechtin'  in  India,  too." 

"A  good  man  and  true,  I  have  no  doubt. 
May  God  send  both  comfort  here  and  eternal 
happiness  hereafter." 

Where  had  I  seen  that  man  before?  I  could 
not  see  the  color  of  his  eyes,  for  thick,  gold- 
bowed  spectacles  covered  them  even  more 
closely  than  is  usual,  but  he  was  masterful  in 
an  easy,  natural  way  that  I  had  never  yet 
encountered.  His  bearing  was  very  soldierly, 
and  it  was  easy  to  see  that  his  natural  ambition 
was  to  be  a  great  soldier,  however  far  away  the 
fates  had  placed  the  goal  of  his  ambition. 
But— could  it  be.^  I  trembled— "Your  Maj— " 
I  began. 

"Not  a  word."  The  command  was  a  mere 
whisper,  but  it  was  enough.  "Forgive  me," 
he  said  more  gently,  "but  Haroun  Al  Raschid 


THE   MINOR   CHORD  231 

would  traverse  unknown  his  good  city  of 
Bagdad.  Many  thanks  for  a  few  moments  of 
pleasant  and  unconventional  converse,"  and 
raising  his  hat,  he  passed  on,  attended  as  I 
now  saw  by  a  number  of  gentlemen  who  sedu- 
lously paid  a  careless  attention  to  everj-thing 
else  except  their  royal  charge. 

I  didn't  dare  to  look  after  him  and  so  turned 
homeward,  but  counted  it  the  greatest  of  all 
my  European  experiences  that  we  had  actually 
met  and  talked  with  the  redoubtable  "War 
Lord"  of  Pruss'a  and  United  Germany.  As 
for  Mrs.  Campbell,  she  was  radiant.  "A'm  no 
denyin'  it,"  she  said.  "A'm  lifted  up  aboon 
my  fellows.  To  think  that  I,  Flora  Cammill, 
of  Abergavenny,  should  ha'  met,  ay,  an'  talked 
wi'  the  Emperor  o'  Germany,  himsel'.  I  can 
scarcely  believe  it." 

I  supposed  that  was  the  last  of  my  adven- 
ture, but  a  few  days  later  Madame  Helvina 
received  the  Imperial  "order"  to  appear  and 
sing  before  the  Royal  Family,  with  a  suggestion 
that  I  bring  my  attendant,  and  be  prepared 
to  sing  some  American  war|songs.  Wejwent, 
and  good  Mrs.  Campbell  was  hospitably  cared 


232  THE  MINOR   CHORD 

for  by  the  palace  attendants,  while  I,  simply 
attired,  was  received  most  kindly  by  the 
Emperor  and  Empress,  and  their  relatives, 
who  formed  a  majority  of  those  present. 

I  sang  Mrs.  Julia  Ward  Howe's  immortal 
"Battle  Hymn  of  the  Republic,"  and  in  answer 
to  questions  told  of  meeting  the  dear  old  author- 
ess, and  of  how  my  father  had  sung  this  song 
with  his  comrades  on  the  march,  when,  thirsty 
and  weary,  they  were  compelled  to  march  on 
to  the  point  of  danger.  Then  I  sang  "Dixie," 
greatly  to  the  delight  of  a  tall,  black-eyed 
gentleman  who  I  afterwards  learned  had  never 
returned  to  America  after  the  fall  of  Richmond. 
Lastly  I  was  about  to  sing  "\Miat  is  the  Ger- 
man Fatherland,"  when  the  Emperor  with  a 
nod  to  the  conductor  of  the  little  orchestra, 
gave  a  signal,  and  one  of  the  great  tapestries 
rose  noiselessly,  revealing  a  score  or  more 
of  the  Bavarians  who  had  marched  past  me 
on  that  memorable  afternoon,  and  part  of  the 
Imperial  Band.  At  the  same  time  there  glided 
into  the  saloon  a  number  of  the  castle  attend- 
ants, and  with  them  Mrs.  Campbell,  evidently 
in  the  seventh  heaven  of  pride  and  happiness. 


THE   MINOR   CHORD  233 

"They  will  join  Madame  in  the  chorus," 
said  the  conductor,  and  the  accompaniment 
began.  I  sang  the  thrilling  German  words 
as  I  never  expect  to  sing  them  again,  but  when 
we  came  to  the  chorus,  the  deep  rich  voices 
of  those  Bavarian  riflemen,  sedulously  re- 
strained, but  full  of  patriotic  love  and  fire, 
seemed  to  carry  me  up  to  the  very  empyrean 
of  song.  "Another  verse,"  said  the  Emperor 
softly;  and  "another  verse,"  whispered  the 
Empress  when  that  was  done.  I  had  to  sing 
them  all  before  the  great  curtain  fell  again, 
and  the  royal  hosts  bade  me  a  simple  farewell. 

"We  cannot  treat  you  Americans  in  just  the 
same  way  as  the  subjects  of  other  powers," 
said  the  Empress  pleasantly.  "You  have  given 
us  a  very  pleasant  evening,  and  the  Emperor 
wishes  you  and  your  companion  to  have 
something  to  remember  us  by.  This  is  for 
you,  and  the  other  little  matters  will  be  sent 
to  your  address.  Farewell;  may  you  be  fortu- 
nate and  happy." 

So  I  took  my  leave  in  due  form,  and  on 
reaching  home  found  Mrs.  Campbell  rejoicing 
over   a  handsome  douceur  for  herself   and   a 


234  THE. MINOR  CHORD 

silver  snuff  box  for  her  father,  some  servant 
having  learned  that  Sergeant  Campbell  was 
partial  to  Maccaboy. 

In  addition  to  a  small  but  valuable  diamond 
ring  given  me  by  the  Empress,  I  had  been  sent 
the  usual  "honorarium,"  more  than  equal  to 
an  evening's  salary,  and  a  beautiful  meer- 
schaum pipe  for  father,  which  the  dear  man 
did  not  live  long  enough  to  "color"  to  the 
perfection  which  he  had  planned,  but  which 
was  a  great  comfort  and  source  of  pride,  as 
he  surveyed  the  Prussian  eagle  on  a  little 
silver  shield  and  the  legend  "To  an  old  soldier, 
from  a  young  one." 

A  week  later  I  was  at  Dresden.  As  inciden- 
tal to  a  prima  donna's  career,  I  thought  that  a 
visit  to  the  Green  Vaults,  with  their  priceless 
jewels,  was  quite  proper. 

Here  were  the  jewels  that  kings  had  struggled 
to  possess,  and  yet  the  humblest  tourist  can 
enjoy  these  matchless  gems  quite  as  much  as 
the  princes  who  once  owned  and  used  those 
great  swords  studded  with  diamonds  and  rubies ! 
The  radiance  and  reflection  of  sapphire,  ame- 
thyst, emerald,  opal,  the  sheen  of  pearls,  quite 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  235 

bewildered  me  with  their  blaze.  Like  all 
women,  I  was  fascinated  with  beautiful  jewels 
and  was  a  wee  bit  envious. 

Another  of  my  weaknesses  which  I  discov- 
ered while  in  Dresden  was  china,  and  indeed 
no  one  who  loves  art  and  beauty  can  fail  to  be 
overwhelmed  with  the  endless  succession  of 
fragile  but  exquisite  creations.  I  enjoyed 
selecting  presents  for  those  at  home,  and  I 
think,  if  Howard  had  not  given  me  a  very  strong 
hint,  I  should  have  been  another  thousand 
dollars  in  debt  if  I  had  remained  longer  within 
reach  of  temptaion. 

The  second  night  of  our  engagement  in 
Dresden,  Tonza  fell  ill,  and  an  understudy  was 
brought  from  Berlin  to  take  his  part.  We  were 
called  hastily  for  an  extra  rehearsal  that 
afternoon.  In  the  dim  light  of  the  Opera 
House,  with  my  mind  quite  under  the  spell 
of  the  china  shops,  I  did  not  notice  who  was  to 
sing  Lohengrin.  It  was  a  new  voice,  and  yet — 
surely  I  had  heard  it  before.  I  came  up  from 
the  dressing-room  hurriedly. 

It  was  Gene  Paroski!  In  a  few  years  the 
fair-haired   boy   had   developed  into  full   and 


23G  THE   MINOR   CHORD 

robust  manhood.  It  brought  back  the  memory 
of  my  first  meeting  with  him,  and  I  could  not 
conceal  my  delight  that  the  promise  of  his 
boyhood  had  so  soon  been  realized. 

"Madame  Helvina!"  he  whispered  joyously 
as  the  orchestra  began  and  we  were  about  to 
sing,  and  I  have  never  before  or  since  felt 
so  supremely  the  truth  that  music  is  an  univer- 
sal language,  in  which  congenial  souls  may 
hold  communion,  for  that  night  Gene  told  me 
in  song  many  things  which  later  he  rehearsed 
in  words,  simply  repeating  much  that  I  had 
already  heard  in  his  wonderful  rendition. 

He  made  music  of  every  note — not  that 
tiresome,  quavering  vibrato,  that  seems  uncer- 
tain and  wavers  about  a  semitone;  not  that 
expletive  angry  gush  that  tenors  love  to  gurgle 
when  in  the  last  stages  of  despairing  love;  not 
that  clever  falsetto  and  head  tone — but  a  voice 
robust,  firm,  clear,  manly  and  musical. 

They  say  that  prima  donnas  and  tenors 
must  be  in  love  to  sing  well.  Musically,  per- 
haps, they  do,  for  I  felt  an  enthusiasm  in  singing 
with  Gene  Paroski  that  I  had  never  known 
before. 


^.^,'1-.^  "     • 


II  t  acre  lost  in  the  characters  we  assumed;  for  im  the  mitliiitre  no 

longer  existed 


THE   MINOR   CHORD  237 

That  performance  decided  that  I  was  to  go 
to  Bayreuth.    At  last  my  Elsa  was  appreciated. 

During  the  opera  we  had  scarcely  spoken 
a  word  together,  but  we  were  lost  in  the 
characters  we  assumed;  for  us  the  great  audi- 
ence no  longer  existed.  We  were  Elsa  and 
Lohengrin. 

After  the  curtain  fell  on  the  last  act  Gene 
kissed  my  hand. 

"To  you,  madame,"  he  cried,  "I  owe  every- 
thing." 

"Hush!  Gene,"  I  replied,  "you  are  talking 
nonsense." 

"We  will  live  for  music,  Madame  Helvina," 
he  continued  warmly,  "real  music,  and  you 
will  yet  be  the  unrivaled  queen  of  opera." 

"Don't  flatter.  Gene,"  I  said.  "There  is  a 
long  road  with  many  turnings  in  a  public 
career.     But  I'm  so  proud  of  you!" 

"Are  you?  Well,  you  are  responsible.  I  can 
never  forget  those  kind  words  of  encourage- 
ment you  gave  me  on  the  steamer." 

He  told  me  his  story,  giving  me  a  picture  of 
his  mother  and  himself,  and  we  got  on  famously 
in  our  friendship;    and,   happily,   he  did  not 


238  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

mar  it  by  persistent  love-making  every  time 
we  were  alone. 

The  ways  of  managers  are  past  understand- 
ing. Although  critics  praised  my  efforts  with 
Gene  and  he  was  kept  in  the  ranks,  yet  I  con- 
tinued with  Tonza.  The  managers  would  not 
agree  to  my  suggestion  of  an  engagement  for 
Gene  in  "Lohengrin." 

"You  will  be  getting  married  to  him,"  was 
the  heartless  conclusion,  "and  that  will  spoil 
it  all." 

They  did  not  know  that  Madame  Helvina 
already  had  a  husband,  if,  indeed,  he  still 
lived;  and  that  until  the  last  hope  of  his 
return  was  abandoned,  love  might  perplex,  but 
marriage  was  not  for  her. 

The  more  stubborn  the  management,  the 
more  friendly  were  Gene  and  I,  and  we  managed 
to  sing  together  many  times  alone. 

We  worshipped  at  Apollo's  shrine,  and  the 
shafts  of  Cupid  fell  harmlessly  around  us. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 
Going  Home  Again 

GOING  home !  Two  thrilling  and  welcome 
words.  I  must  have  danced  about 
like  a  little  girl  when  Howard  announced 
it  one  dav  in  Berlin.  He  had  succeeded  in 
making  engagements  for  "Madame  Helvina" 
on  that  American  circuit  which  has  so  often 
loaded  with  gold  the  blase  and  waning  favor- 
ites of  the  European  stage. 

I  had  just  returned  from  an  excursion  to  the 
Sans  Souci  gardens  at  Potsdam,  where  I  had 
revelled  among  the  fountains  and  grounds 
made  famous  by  Frederick  the  Great.  The 
terrace  which  the  great  monarch  used  to  pace 
for  his  morning  walk  was  now  overgrown  with 
flowers.  The  little  low  palace  of  one  story, 
Voltaire's  room,  the  Death  Gate — all  was  regal 
magnificence,  and  yet  the  owner  died  unhappy. 
The  scenes  of  the  day  impressed  me,  and  I 
looked  forward  now  with  pleasure  to  reading 
Carlyle's    "Frederick    the    Great."      Howard's 

239 


240  THE  MINOR   CHORD 

good  news  dissipated  my  intention.  Going 
home!  How  sweet  it  seemed  to  an  American 
who  had  been  exiled  for  so  long!  There  is  no 
glory  of  fame  that  can  dim  the  radiance  of 
home  love. 

When  the  great  vessel  steamed  into  New 
York  harbor  my  eyes  filled  with  tears.  It 
makes  us  better  patriots  to  travel.  During 
the  years  I  had  been  absent  I  had  witnessed  no 
such  inspiring  scene  as  the  Stars  and  Stripes 
floating  everywhere  in  the  great  city.  It  was 
Memorial  Day — a  day  set  apart  to  decorate 
the  graves  of  soldiers,  for  the  children  to  sing 
patriotic  songs,  giving  honor  to  the  heroes,  liv- 
ing and  dead.  And  my  father  was  an  old  soldier. 

During  my  few  first  engagements  in  the 
Eastern  states  I  had  the  honor  to  thank  and 
repay  my  beneficent  friend,  James  Burlingame. 
My  generous  patron  was  an  ideal  Boston  gentle- 
man. As  we  went  to  his  handsome  home  in 
Back  Bay  my  heart  overflowed  with  gratitude. 

*'And  this  is  my  noble  benefactor!"  I  said, 
advancing  to  him,  and  introducing  myself  and 
Mrs.  Campbell.  "To  you  I  owe  my  stage 
career — " 


THE   MINOR   CHORD  241 

"Do  not  talk  to  me  of  tlie  stage,  inadame," 
he  said  excitedly.     'T  hate  it!" 

"Why!"  I  exclaimed  in  surprise.  "You  were 
always  considered  the  great  patron  of  the  stage 
in    Boston." 

"Yes,  but  that  was  before — before—"  And 
he  broke  into  tears. 

"Well,  madame,  perhaps  I  am  unreasonable," 
he  continued;  "but  the  stage  robbed  me  of 
my  pretty  little  niece,  my  only  hope  in  old  age. 
She  wanted  to  become  an  actress  and  went  to 
Europe,  like  you.  I  gave  her  the  money  to  go 
to  Paris,  and — but — but — "  He  broke  down 
again. 

"And  you  lost  track  of  the  poor  dear?" 
asked  IVIrs.  Campbell,  with  a  ready  symaathy. 

"Yes,"  he  murmured  sadly,  "all  trace  was 
lost  of  her  for  a  time.  Then  she  wrote  that  she 
was  married  and  then  came  that  last  letter, 
her  death  warrant.     Poor  Lila — " 

"Ivila?"  I  breathed.  My  heart  was  pounding. 
"Was  it — this  warrant — from  the  Morgue?" 

He  nodded  sadly.  "Photographs  were  sent 
us,  and  there  was  no  doubt  of  the  horrible 
truth.     We  brought  her  home  and   she  now 


242  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

sleeps  in  Auburn,  beside  her  mother.  The 
stage  was  her  hell,  her  doom.  Do  you  wonder 
that  I  hate  it?" 

Should  we  tell  him  all  we  knew.'*     The  bell 

of  the  Old  South  Church  sounded.     It  seemed 

like  a  knell  for  poor  Lila.    We  did  not  tell  him 

all  the  sad  story — it  would  have  been  too  cruel. 

*         *         »■         * 

I  urged  Howard  to  hurry  on  to  Chicago  and 
told  him  I  should  have  to  have  a  fortnight's 
holiday  alone  after  that. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  he  asked,  puzzled. 

"Never  mind.  I  don't  want  to  see  you  for 
two  weeks." 

Was  I  ashamed  of  my  home  and  my  mother? 
No,  God  forbid!  But  the  deception  had  com- 
menced, and  even  he  must  not  know  that  I 
was  a  country  girl  from  Iowa,  when  his  "stories" 
claimed   so   differently. 

"All  right,"  he  conceded.  "If  you  can  trust 
me  with  your  business  affairs — I  am  only  the 
cashier." 

"How  much  can  I  draw?" 

*  You've  some  heavy  orders  for  costumes." 

"I  must  have  one  thousand  dollars." 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  243 

"Oh,  that's  easy,"  he  said,  giving  his  watch 
charm  a  twirl;  "but  the  engagement  here 
must  be  filled  first." 

There  was  over  a  fortnight  yet  before  I  could 
leave  Chicago,  and  I  telegraphed  for  mother 
to  come  to  me  from  that  little  Iowa  town 
which  was  my  home.  The  next  day  we  met, 
mother  and  I.  How  happy  I  was  when  we 
walked,  unknown  and  unobserved,  together 
through  the  grounds — mother  and  I! 

The  oratorio  first  rendered  in  my  performance 
that  evening  was  "The  Creation,"  mother's 
favorite,  and  how  that  sweet  face  in  the  center 
inspired  me! 

I  was  glad  when  the  last  day  of  my  engage- 
ment arrived.  Mother  now  timorously  ven- 
tured to  come  with  me  to  the  dressing-room. 

"Why,  Minza,  you  don't  always  have  to 
whitewash  that  way,  do  you?" 

The  hare's  paw  and  make-up  box  startled 
her. 

"Yes,  mother,"  I  said  wearily.  "My  real 
self  is  dead;  I  am  a  public  statue  now.  Do 
not  ever  let  the  secret  be  known  that  Madame 
Helvina  is  your  daughter.  Let  me  always 
remain   Minza — only   Minza — to  you." 


244  THE   MINOR   CHORD 

The  orchestra  began  and  I  took  my  seat 
aniifl  applause.  In  oratorios  the  faces  of  an 
audience  can  always  be  studied  more  than  In 
opera.  That  day  I  felt  the  opera  glasses  levelled 
at  me  with  heartless  scrutiny.  When  I  began 
my  first  solo  my  eyes  caught  a  face  in  the 
gallery. 

The  sight  so  startled  me  that  I  nearly  broke 
down;  my  voice  quivered;  the  orchestral 
tones  seemed  a  din  of  confusion;  my  voice 
sounded  distant  and  far  away.  I  did  not  dare 
look  again  for  those  eyes.  Could  I  be  mis- 
taken.'^ No,  they  were  there  still,  and  I  felt 
I  could  keep  up  no  longer.  A  moment,  and  I 
sang  to  him  with  my  heart  aching,  and  felt 
those  eyes  upon  me — it  was  Fred  Burroughes. 
Did  he  recognize  Minza? 

Mother  was  startled  when  I  came  out. 

"Why,  Minza,  child,  what's  the  matter.^ 
x\re  you  ill.^" 

"No,  mother,  I  saw  Fred  Burroughes  in  the 
audience,  and  it  quite  upset  me." 

"Did  he  recognize  you?" 

"I  don't  know,"  I  replied  sadly. 

"I  hope  not,  Minza.     Fred's  life  is  a  wreck. 


THE   MINOR   CHORD  245 

He  ran  away  from  his  wife  and  married  an 
actress — now  they  are  'vaudeville'  people, 
and  he  has  served  a  year  in  prison  for  big- 
amy. They  are  not  considered  respectable  in 
Smith  ville." 

"But,  mother,  remember  what  he  did  for 
us! 

"Yes,  my  child,  but  we  cannot  help  him 
now.    It  would  ruin  j^ou  were  it  known  that — " 

"Mother,"  I  said  firmly,  "I  will  see  him  and 
thank  him  tomorrow." 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

Home  Once  More 

WE  started  upon  our  trip  home  in  a  few 
days.  Every  passing  tree,  I  fancied, 
nodded  a  greeting  as  we  sped  away 
over  the  rolHng  prairies.  How  dear  the  broad 
green  fields  of  the  old  State  seemed!  How 
rich  and  fertile  and  smiling  the  landscape 
appeared  that  bright  June  morning! 

"Won't  it  be  a  surprise  for  the  folks?"  thought 
I,  as  we  alighted  from  the  Smithville  train  at 
dusk  and  started  to  walk  home. 

I  rushed  along  the  village  street  ahead  of 
mother,  for  fear  some  of  the  old  neighbors 
might  recognize  me. 

Where  was  the  dear  old  home?  I  did  not 
see  it  nestling  among  the  trees.  A  larger,  new- 
fashioned  house  stood  in  its  stead.  Why  had 
they  not  written  to  me,  and  why  had  they  torn 
down  the  little  cottage  that  I  loved  so  well? 

A  tall  lad  was  busy  with  a  lawn-mower  in 
the  front  garden. 

246 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  247 

"Does  Mr.  Robert  Maxwell  live  here?"  I 
inquired. 

"Well,  rather.  Why,  sister  Minza,  don't 
you  know  me.''    I'm  Jim." 

I  hugged  the  young  rascal  until  he  gasped 
for  breath. 

"Where's  father— and  Tod.'"  I  said  all  in 
one  breath. 

"Father's  over  at  Rathbones.'  She's  very 
ill." 

"Who?  Tim?  Children— Angela?"  I  ex- 
claimed. 

"Yes,  she's  had  trouble  enough  to  die," 
said  Jim.  "But  come  in.  My!  but,  Minza, 
you  wear  fine  dresses  now,"  he  continued, 
with  an  admiring  brotherly  glance. 

It  seemed  impossible  to  realize  that  this 
was  the  little  baby  I  had  nursed.  I  could  not 
take  my  eyes  from  his  tall  form. 

"Now  I  must  see  father!"  I  exclaimed. 

"I'll  go  and  get  him,"  said  Jim.  "You  sit 
still,  or  don't  you  want  to — "  He  stopped  and 
looked  at  me. 

"Yes,  I'll  go,"  and  without  taking  off  my 
cloak   I    started    across   the    road    under   the 


248  THE   ]\nNOR   CHORD 

towering  row  of  maples,  and  passed  the  sand 
pile  where  Angela  and  I  used  to  play  together. 

Father  saw  me  and  rushed  out. 

"Minza,  my  daughter!"  and  the  little  gray- 
haired  man  embraced  me  tenderly.  "She's 
very  low,"  he  whispered  as  we  went  in. 

The  room  was  dark;  the  light  of  a  flickering 
lamp  only  was  on  her  pale  face;  her  cheeks 
were  sunken,  her  lips  parched.  It  was  Angela! 
I  took  the  thin  hand  and  kissed  it  affection- 
atelj'. 

"Who  is  it — Mrs.  Brady?"  she  whispered 
in  a  faint  voice.     "No,  no,  it's— it's — Minza." 

With  a  cry  she  feebly  placed  her  arms  about 
mv  neck. 

Angela,  Angela,  sister  of  my  childhood! 
About  the  room  were  three  little  children,  all 
Tim's,  the  alternate  images  of  father  and 
mother. 

"You've  come — come!  O  Minza!  forgive — " 
continued  Angela. 

"Hush,"  I  said,  kissing  the  dry  lips.  "Now 
rest  quietly." 

A  flood-tide  of  memories  came  back  as  I 
watched  at  that  bedside.     Would  Tim  come? 


THE   MINOR   CHORD  249 

As  I  l)ent  over  the  suffering  woman  I  could 
see  but  little  trace  of  that  happy  girlish  face 
I  had  left  behind  me. 

I  held  her  in  my  arms  and  she  slept.  It  was 
not  long  before  I  heard  a  noise  at  the  door, 
and  the  children  began  to  scamper  to  the 
kitchen. 

"It's  papa,  it's  papa!"  they  whispered  in 
concert  like  frightened  birds. 

I  was  to  meet  him  at  last — the  face  I  had  so 
long  sought  in  vain!     My  heart  stood  still. 

Father  gave  me  a  pained  look.  I  saw  that 
Tim  was  drunk! 

This,  then,  was  the  story  of  that  pallid  face 
and  those  frightened  children,  I  laid  Angela 
down  genth'. 

"Don't  go — go — Min — za  he's  only — ah,  my 
God—" 

I  walked  out  into  the  other  room.  With  a 
light   in   my   hand  I  faced  the  drunken    man. 

Was  that  the  face.^  "Tim!"  I  cried  as  he 
staggered  toward  me. 

"Mush  'bliged,  eh!  Neighbors  always  in 
the  way." 

"Tim!"  I  said  again,  "it's  Minza." 


250  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

That  seemed  to  sober  him.  What  a  wreck 
he  was,  though  his  bloodshot  eyes  flashed  the 
old  fire. 

"Minza,  Minza!"  he  cried.  He  sat  down  and 
wept  like  a  child. 

I  shook  his  limp  hand  as  he  sat  with  bowed 
and  abject  head.  I  slipped  back  to  the  dark- 
ened bedroom  and  kissed  Angela's  sleeping 
face.  Other  neighbors  came  to  take  the  watch 
at  the  sick  bed,  and  I  returned  home. 

The  incident  had  saddened  my  home-coming. 

I  found  Tod  on  the  front  veranda,  proud 
as  a  king  in  his  new  scarlet  band  uniform. 

"Minza,  Minza!"  he  cried  as  he  hung  to  me. 

How  swift  in  passing  were  those  few  days 
at  home,  and  yet  I  was  not  sorry  when  they 
were  over!  Everything  was  so  different! — 
there  were  so  few  familiar  faces  to  greet  me, 
and  all  in  some  way  were  changed. 

We  have  no  right  to  expect  anything  else, 
but  we  seem  to  forget  that  all  things  and  all 
people  change  as  time  and  age  bring  fruition 
and,  alas,  decay;  and  we  find  it  very  hard  to 
realize  that  we  cannot  drop  the  thread  of  love 
or  friendship,  of  business  or  social  ties,  and 


THE   MINOR   CHORD  251 

take  it  up  again  unf rayed  and  unbroken. 
All  were  good  and  kind  and  loving,  but  in  my 
pursuit  of  fame  and  wealth  I  had  paid  the  price 
that  all  must  pay  if  they  go  among  strangers 
to  struggle  for  "the  great  prizes  of  life." 

The  day  before  I  was  to  leave  I  went  to  see 
Angela.  She  was  much  better  and  sitting  up, 
although  very  weak.  I  had  not  seen  Tim  since 
that  first  meeting. 

"Yes,"  she  said  faintly,  "I  shall  get  well 
now,"  but  there  was  something  strained  in 
her  expression  and  the  tears  were  in  her  eyes 
as  we  said  good-bj^e. 

That  afternoon  we  were  aroused  by  the  cries 
of  the  children  across  the  street. 

"Mother's  dying,  mother's  dying!"  the  little 
ones  cried,  and  we  hastened  across  the  road 
to  assist  and  if  possible  to  save  her. 

It  was  useless.  Her  apparent  improvement 
had  been  but  the  deceitful  rally  of  exhausted 
nature,  which  so  often  precedes  dissolution, 
and  we  found  the  dying  mother  feebly  kissing 
her  three  little  girls  and  bidding  them  her  last 
fond  good-bye,  while  Tim  stood  weeping  at 
the  opposite  side  of  the  bed. 


252  THE  MINOR   CHORD 

"I  have  killed  her,  Minza!"  he  cried  in 
despair.     "Oh,  if  I  could  die,  too!" 

There  was  one  last  glance  as  her  eyes  looked 
into  mine  and  she  smiled  in  recognition. 

That  was  the  last  of  earth.  Angela,  my  own 
sister  Angela! 

She  was  buried  at  the  old  limekiln.  What  a 
funeral  it  was !  My  voice  broke  in  those  simple 
songs  of  childhood.  My  heart  was  too  full. 
As  we  stood  at  the  graveside  the  rustle  of  the 
leaves  of  the  old  walnut  tree  seemed  a  whisper 
from  the  dead.  Underneath  the  very  spot  we 
used  to  sit  as  children  Angela  was  buried — 
the  place  where  I  had  first  plighted  my  girlish 
troth  to  Tim! 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 
I  Leave  America 

THE  American  tour  was  soon  completed. 
It  was  one  of  those  lulls  in  life  which 
leave  a  blank  in  memory.    It  was  simply 
a   dull   routine — flitting   in   and   out   of   those 
palatial  hotels,  which  harbor  only  the  birds  of 
passage  of  these  restless  daj's. 

Another  year,  and  I  was  to  make  the  great 
test  of  my  powers  in  Wagner's  opera  at  Bay- 
reuth.  I  continued  my  study  of  the  German 
language,  the  verbs  and  genders  still  puzzling 
me.  At  first  there  seemed  nothing  musical  in 
the  guttural  tones  of  the  German  tongue.  Of 
course  I  had  many  callers  and  made  many  new 
acquaintances,  but  I  was  much  absorbed  in  my 
work.  There  are  times  when  our  energies  wax 
and  wane,  and  in  one  of  the  consequent  lulls 
I  met  the  Hon.  David  J.  Hendershot,  a  young 
member  of  Congress.  He  was  a  keen,  typical 
American,  always  entertaining  and  interesting. 
He  told  me  at  various  times  the  story  of  his 

253 


254  THE   MINOR   CHORD 

life,  and  I  found  his  early  struggles  were 
somewhat  similar  to  my  own. 

"We  have  to  seize  opportunity  by  the  fore- 
lock," he  mused  one  day,  "and  play  upon 
human  nature  as  upon  a  harp.  Do  you  know, 
we  have  a  reflection  of  European  aristocracy 
in  America?" 

"No,"  I  replied  warmly.  "Our  only  aristoc- 
racy in  America  is  Merit.  A  man  must  win 
distinction  in  business,  letters,  politics,  music, 
art,  journalism,  or  make  money  in  some  way 
before  he  is  recognized  as  distinguished.  Merit 
is  our  only  royalty." 

"You  did  not  include  the  distinguished  no- 
toriety acquired  by  any  fool  of  a  crank.  No," 
he  continued,  "you  only  know  America  general- 
ized; I  know  it  particularized.  My  first 
political  suqcess  was  due  to  the  fact  that  I 
was  the  member  of  numerous  societies  and  an 
all-round  good  fellow." 

"And  you  have  ridden  those  horrid  society 
goats?"  I  broke  in. 

"Yes;  you  know  it  is  a  rage  with  us.  We 
have  hundreds  of  different  secret  societies 
whose   mission   may   be  social   or  benevolent; 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  ^55 

and  the  tinsel  and  display  of  the  Sir  Knights 
of  the  Beanpole  in  lodge  rooms  and  on  public 
occasions  indicate  that  humanity  even  in 
America  has  a  love  for  the  flash  of  royal  robes 
and  diadems.  Nowadays  there  is  scarcely  an 
American  man  or  woman  who  does  not  belong 
to  from  one  to  a  dozen  of  these  societies  and 
lodges.  We  all  wear  buttons  in  our  coat  lapels 
and  emblems  of  our  degrees.  A  hod-carrier 
may  be  a  Sir  Knight  or  a  High  Royal  Bumper 
in  some  secret  organization.  It  is  a  great  age 
of  societies  with  us,  and  we  all  have  some 
hobby  which  holds  our  interest  and  in  which 
we  usually  hold  office." 

"You  are  not  telling  lodge  secrets?"  I  asked, 
smiling. 

"Oh,  no,"  he  said,  with  a  laugh,  "I  am 
only  taking  a  general  view.  Even  our  labor 
organizations  invest  their  leaders  with  jewels 
and  arbitrary  power,  perhaps  modified  by  the 
action  of  a  committee.  I  confess  I  am  begin- 
ning to  believe  it  would  be  best  to  take  to  the 
monarchial  form  of  government." 

"And  you  a  member  of  the  United  States 
Congress!"  I  cried.  "For  shame!" 


256  THE   MINOR  CHORD 

"Yes,  but  we  must  face  facts  and  not  theories. 
The  absorption  in  making  money  and  the 
tremendous  prosperity  of  the  great  leaders 
for  some  years  past  has  bred  discontent,  which 
is  taken  advantage  of  by  ambitious  men. 
The  men  all  want  to  be  masters;  the  strife 
is  not  so  much  a  question  of  wages  as  it  is  an 
outburst  against  caste  mingled  with  envy  and 
jealousy  on  both  sides.  In  politics  we  are 
taught  always  to  plead  for  the  workingman 
and  the  farmer  in  legislation.  Well  enough! 
We  must  look  to  their  interests,  but  have  they 
not  just  as  much  human  greed  as — " 

"Yes,"  I  interrupted,  "but  the  poor  man  is 
made  to  feel  the  sting  of  poverty  by  the  wealthy, 
who  flaunt  their  diamonds  in  his  face,  thinking 
that  everything  is  purchasable — " 

"It  is,"  he  broke  in.  "For  what  do  you 
struggle?  For  money!  Why  do  the  streets 
throng  with  people  selling  matches,  fruit, 
shoe-strings?  Why  does  the  merchant  fill  his 
windows  with  rich  displays  of  his  wares?  Whj^ 
do  the  railroads  spend  millions  for  franchises 
and  special  legislation — why  do  trusts  absorb 
all  competition?     To  make  money." 


THE   MINOR   CHORD  257 

"You  are  too  severe,"  I  gently  remonstrated. 
"Don't  von  know  there  are  human  motives 
aside  from  these?  I  never  thought  of  salaries 
when  I  studied  art.    Music  was  my  ambition." 

"You  looked  forward  to  a  condition  brought 
about  as  a  result  of  the  money  earned — when 
you  could — you  could — marry." 

"Perhaps,''  I  admitted  reflectively. 

"Yes,  monej'  was  the  medium  to  accomplish 
all  this.  Gold  has  been  the  god  of  humanity 
since  the  davs  of  the  children  of  Israel,  when 
they  worshipped  the  golden  calf.  We  worship 
it  for  what  it  affords." 

"Yes,"  I  said  bitterly,  "but  it  brings  little 
happiness." 

"That's  the  philosophic  way  of  putting  it, 
but  we  all  want  it  just  the  same." 

"You  seem  to  forget  that  there  is  such  a 
thing  as  pure,  self-sacrificing  love  in  the  gamut 
of  human  affection." 

"Oh,  no,"  he  denied,  laughing.  "It  breaks 
out  occasionally,  but  there  is  always  a  motive 
at  the  back  of  it — nearlv  alwavs." 

"You  are  embittered,  I  am  afraid,"  I  told 
him,  "and  I  think  you  do  not  realize  that  every 


258  THE   MINOR   CHORD 

human  heart  has  its  good  impulses.  If  distress 
occurs  in  one  part  of  our  countrj^  how  quickly 
the  people  respond  to  relieve  the  sufferings! 
If  all  human  misery  were  actually  realized  by 
those  able  to  relieve  it,  there  would  be  little 
want.  It  is  because  we  are  in  ignorance  and 
do  not  comprehend — " 

"And  that  ignorance  is  studied,"  he  broke  in. 
"People  put  cotton  in  their  ears.  Philanthropy 
is  a  profession.  It  becomes  a  rivalry  of  some 
sort  or  another.  Of  course  we  must  applaud 
it,  but  to  me  there  is  more  philanthropy  in  a 
kind  word  of  sincere  sympathy  than  in  a  gor- 
geous display  of  patronizing  gifts." 

"How  about  your  secret  societies?"  I  asked. 

"There  we  have  philanthropy  developed  in 
the  highest  degree,"  he  said  warmly.  "We 
look  to  our  brothers  as  brothers,  and  assist 
them  under  an  oath-bound  secrecy." 

I  saw  that  I  could  not  convert  him.  I  was 
captivated  by  the  sincerity  in  his  eyes. 

We  had  many  talks  together,  and  although 
his  ideas  sometimes  vexed  me,  he  was  always 
interesting.  In  fact,  he  "happened"  in  several 
different  cities  where  I  had  engagements. 


THE   MINOR   CHORD  259 

During  my  last  week  in  New  York  he  wrote 
me  a  letter  stating  that  his  re-election  was 
now  hanging  in  the  balance  and  that  he  was 
in  the  midst  of  a  heated  campaign.  The  fol- 
lowing day  he  came  in  quite  unexpectedly. 

"Madame  Helvina,"  he  exclaimed,  "I  am 
defeated.    I  am  a  bankrupt  politician!" 

"Why,"  I  said,  mystified,  "the  election  does 
not  occur  till  next  week." 

"Yes,  but  I  leave  this  afternoon  for  the  final 
hopeless  struggle.  My  opponent  is  a  wealthy 
man.  True,  he  has  no  education,  nor  experi- 
ence in  legislative  matters,  but  he  has  money. 
I  find  his  handiwork  everywhere;  even  those 
workingmen  for  whom  I  have  always  worked 
are  deserting  me.  His  funds  mean  more  to 
them  than  my  arguments  in  Congress.  He  is 
a  successful  business  man,  and  his  money  floats 
his  name  everywhere." 

"Are   you   not   prejudiced?"   I   suggested. 

"No,"  he  insisted,  "I  am  not.  It  is  not  the 
man,  but  the  money,  that  will  defeat  me.  His 
ignorance  is  boasted  of  as  being  one  reason 
why  he'l^is  in  sympathy  with  the  working- 
man.      He   has  given   parks   and   schools   and 


260  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

spent  thousands  in  philanthropy  to  win  this 
election.  He  is  linked  with  rich  people  who  have 
legislative  interests  to  be  looked  after." 

"Well,"  I  sympathized,  "you  are  clever 
enough  to  live  without  going  to  Congress." 

"That  is  true,"  he  said  slowly,  "but  if  I  had 
been  re-elected  I  was  going  to  ask  you  to — to 
— to  marry  me." 

The  suddenness  of  the  proposal  rather 
startled  me. 

"I  am  afraid  there  may  be  a  'motive'  at  the 
back  of  this,"  I  replied,  using  his  favorite  words. 

"Don't  taunt  me,"  he  pleaded.  "Philosophy 
is  one  thing,  love  is  another." 

"You  think  I  should  marry  political  success, 
then.?" 

"Yes;  all  women  like  success — and  success- 
ful men." 

"You  don't  know  a  woman's  heart,"  I  replied 
seriously. 

"No,"  he  agreed,  "that's  what  I'm  trying  to 
find  out." 

Just  then  Mrs.  Campbell  entered,  and  our 
tete-a-tete  was  over.  He  left  soon  after,  with 
only  ten  minutes  in  which  to  catch  his  train. 


THE   MINOR   CHORD  261 

In  less  than  a  hour  Howard  came  into  the 
room. 

"Next  week  we  sail  for  Europe,"  he  stated. 

"Yes,"  I  replied  meekly. 

"You've  had  many  proposals  to  marry.  Does 
Hendershot  belong  on  the  list,  too.^"  he  asked 
ironically. 

"Perhaps." 

"Now,  Helvy,"  he  continued,  using  his 
favorite  title,  "there's  no  use  in  my  holding 
back  any  longer.    Have  I  served  you  well.^" 

"Howard,  I  can  never  repay  you;  you're 
not  going  to  resign?" 

"No,  Helvy;  I  never  want  to  leave  you. 
That  is  the  trouble.  But  now,"  he  lowered  his 
voice  and  came  nearer  to  me,  "I  want  to  love 
you  as  well  as  serve  you.  I  never  found  myself 
until  I  met  you." 

I  turned  away,  for  his  earnestness  had  made 
me  see  in  him  another  man. 

"Howard,"  I  said  softly,  "I  can  never 
marrv." 

"Do  you  love — " 

"I  cannot  marry;  I  am  wedded — wedded  to 
my   art." 


262  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

"I  believe,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  "that 
there  is  another  reason." 

How  could  I  tell  him  the  truth?  That  I  was 
neither  maid,  wife  nor  widow  for  certain; 
I  could  not  share  the  truth  with  him  then. 

"Don't,  Howard,"  I  pleaded,  "you  make 
me  miserable." 

"Then  I  ought  to  leave  you,  Helvy.  I  have 
worked  and  loved  you,  trembling  lest  you 
might  forget  your  wedded  art  and  marry 
another.  At  least,  if  you  do  not  love  me, 
promise  me  that  you  will  not  marry  unless  for 
love." 

"I  do  promise,  Howard."  I  looked  him 
squarely  in  the  face,  but  my  eyes  dropped 
at  the  light  in  his.  "You  will  not  leave 
me.?" 

"My  life  is  yours,"  he  said  quietly,  "and  if 
we  can't  be  married,  I'll  be  your  father  or 
guardian  or — " 

"Be  my  big  brother,"  I  suggested.  And 
we  clasped  hands  on  the  pact. 

The  week  after  we  sailed  for  Europe  to  take 
a  short  holiday  in  Switzerland  before  com- 
mencing our  work. 


THE   MINOR  CHORD  263 

The  parting  scene  on  the  pier  did  not  im- 
press me  as  on  my  first  voyage;  it  had  lost 
its  novelty  and  there  is  never  the  same  keen 
observation  the  second  time.  As  we  passed 
the  swinging  bell-buoy  at  Sandy  Hook  it  still 
blended  its  plaintive  note  with  the  weird  song 
of  the  waves. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

Amid  the  Alps 

ONE  of  the  most  fortunate  moves  of  my 
life  was  in  going  to  Switzerland  when 
I  did.  It  was  merely  chance;  but  on 
the  heights  of  the  Righi,  at  sunrise,  as  I  was 
awakened  by  the  long-sustained  notes  of  the 
Alpine  horn,  it  revealed  to  me  the  environ- 
ment in  which  Richard  Wagner  had  received 
his  inspiration  for  the  opening  score  of  "Parsi- 
fal." The  first  act  of  the  opera  brings  to  mind 
that  majestic  vision  of  dawn  on  the  Alps. 

Clad  in  his  leathern  cap  and  fantastic  red 
blouse,  the  herdsman  sounded  his  thrilling 
refrain.  Again  it  sounded,  and  then  a  screech 
in  falsetto  was  followed  by  the  Alpine  song, 
which  echoed  down  the  valley. 

The  first  glance  through  the  window  seemed 
like  a  dream  of  heaven.  The  soft,  delicate 
purple  haze  tenderly  bathed  the  landscape. 
Nature's  great  night  veil  was  about  to  be 
lifted.    The  moon  shone  clearly  in  the  heavens, 

264 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  265 

as  if  loath  to  leave  the  clear  steel-blue  sky. 
The  snow-capped  peaks  in  the  distance  were 
so  mingled  with  clouds  that  it  was  difficult  to 
distinguish  the  celestial  from  the  terrestrial, 
but  the  snow  had  a  grayer  tinge,  and  even  its 
purity  faded  beside  the  spotless  white  of  the 
clouds. 

We  gathered  on  the  topmost  peak  with  half- 
opened  eyes.  Scarcely  a  word  was  spoken; 
for  all  were  silent  under  the  spell  of  the  grandeur 
of  the  scene.  Beneath,  the  great  mountains 
were  sleeping  under  a  coverlet  of  fleecy,  floating 
clouds.  In  the  valleys  a  sea  of  mist  hid  the 
blue  waters  of  Lowerz  and  Zug  from  view.  On 
the  distant  crags,  overhanging  a  precipice, 
the  little  Swiss  chalets  seemed  to  be  sleeping 
like  birds  on  the  branch.  The  sun's  first  glow 
appeared  between  two  jagged  peaks:  first  a 
soft  mellow  pink,  then  spears  of  crimson  shot 
out,  as  if  sentinels  to  announce  his  coming. 
Slowly  and  majestically  the  deep  red  sphere 
rose  from  behind  the  twin  peaks  to  awaken 
distant  Pilatus  from  slumber.  Black,  horizontal 
bars  of  cloud  shot  across  his  face  as  if  giving  him 
a  fiery  red-purple  glow  of  anger  as  he  pushed 


266  THE   MINOR   CHORD 

through  the  dark  obstruction  in  his  path.  One 
could  ahiiost  see  the  earth  revolve  while  the 
heavens  stood  still.  The  great  orb  changed 
color  till  its  dazzling  disc  glistened  with  in- 
tense white  purity.  Another  bank  of  gloomy 
clouds  interposed  and  the  great  monster  seemed 
to  shake  himself  as  if  to  bore  his  way  through; 
when  they  met  the  fiery  purple  tinge  blending 
into  orange  blazed  again  like  sparks  from  the 
forge  of  Vulcan.  The  clouds  and  mists  scat- 
tered before  his  piercing  raj's,  and  like  a  blazing 
chariot,  he  continued  his  way  through  the 
heavens. 

The  shadows  of  the  mountains  clung  to  the 
dark  purple  peaks  on  the  other  side.  They  were 
soon  dissolved  by  the  glow  of  soft  virgin  light 
that  seemed  playfully  to  chase  down  the  valley 
and  give  each  peak  its  morning  bath  of  golden 
sunshine. 

We  seemed  close  to  God.  Here  Wagner  had 
caught  his  inspiration  for  the  overture  of  his 
story  of  the  Holy  Grail;  here  the  Finite  and 
Infinite  seemed  to  touch. 

The  next  day,  in  Lucerne,  at  breakfast,  I 
read  the  following  in  a  London  paper: 


THE   INIINOR   CHORD  267 

Startling  Discovery. — What  seemed  to  be 
the  remains  of  a  balloon  and  two  men  were 
found  recentl}'  on  the  south  side  of  the  Wetter- 
horn  by  Alpine  climbers.  It  is  supposed  to 
be  the  remains  of  a  scientific  expedition  made 
some  six  years  ago  in  an  effort  to  cross  the 
Alps  with  a  balloon,  which  has  never  been 
heard  from  since. 

Could  this  be  Robert's  balloon?  I  started  at 
once  to  find  out  the  real  truth,  and  as  I  pic- 
tured poor  Robert's  dead  face,  his  lonely 
fate  haunted  me. 

I  arrived  at  Grindelwald  and  made  known 
my  mission.  At  first  I  was  regarded  with  sus- 
picion. The  remains  had  been  brought  down 
to  this  romantic  little  village,  and  were  kept 
in  the  back  room  of  a  carpenter's  shop  till  the 
inquest  should  be  held.  How  I  trembled  as  I 
entered!  Was  I  alone  with  my  dead.'  Only 
two  skeletons  and  the  ragged  remains  of  a 
silk  balloon!  No  rings  or  jewelry  had  been 
found.  I  tried  in  vain  to  find  the  least  clue, 
and  yet  I  felt  that  one  of  those  skeletons  was 
that  of  my  husband.  While  I  sat  there  over  the 
crumbling  remains,  two  Germans  came  in. 


268  THE   MINOR   CHORD 

"That's  the  balloon,"  said  one,  as  they 
examined  it  closely. 

Among  the  effects  found  was  a  watch  which 
I  had  not  noticed,  and  the  other  German  picked 
it  up  and  looked  at  it  minutely. 

"Yes,  this  is  his  watch,"  he  continued, 
"there  is  no  doubt  now." 

I  looked  up  in  surprise.  Did  they  know 
Robert? 

"Who  are  they?"  I  asked  breathlessly. 

"Jean  Valing  and  Jacob  Stransen,  madame. 
They  left  us  six  years  ago  and  there  is  no  doubt 
now  as  to  their  identity." 

"Was  not  one  of  them  an  American?"  I 
asked  anxiously. 

"No,   both   Germans." 

"But  might  not  one  of  them  have  been  an 
American?"  I  persisted. 

"No,  they  were  both  known  to  me  from 
childhood.  I  remember  well  when  they  started 
on  this  fatal  journey  to  make  aerial  obser- 
vations on  the  Wetterhorn." 

They  seemed  to  be  quite  satisfied  that  they 
had  established  the  identity  of  their  friends, 
and  took  charge  of  the  remains.     It  was  not 


THE  MINOR   CHORD  269 

Robert,  and  his  fate  was  still  a  mystery,  never, 
perhaps,  to  be  solved. 

Was  the  lost  husband  of  mv  vouth  to  still 
remain  a  haunting  phantom? 

Bob  appeared  to  me  in  a  dream  that  night, 
in  his  aerial  car  clad  in  a  pure  white  robe,  and 
took  me  away.  Up — up — we  went.  The  heights 
of  Righi  and  Pilatus  faded  away;  the  earth 
seemed  like  a  rolling  ship,  fighting  among 
cloudy  waves  in  a  sea  of  space.  We  sailed  on 
and  on,  and  I  begged  him  to  return  to  earth. 
He  shook  his  head  and  pointed  to  the  great 
blinding  sun  and  said  with  that  old  boyish, 
reliant  look:  "Hark,  Minza,  our  wedding 
chimes  are  sounding." 

He  took  me  in  his  arms  and  kissed  me — a 
husband's  kiss.  The  chimes  of  the  little  village 
church  echoed  in  my  ears  as  I  awoke.  From 
earth  came  a  plaintive  note  mingling  with  the 
rapturous  dream  symphonies  of  heaven. 


CHAPTER   XXX 

I  Sing  at  Bayreuth 

THE  next  month  found  us  at  Bayreuth, 
hard  at  work  rehearsing.  The  sleepy 
old  Bavarian  village  enjoys  rare  distinc- 
tion in  its  associations  with  the  great  Wagner. 
The  little  old  gray  houses  and  narrow  streets; 
the  old  Opera  house,  with  its  weather-worn 
statues,  and  the  Town  Hall  and  Cathedral, 
the  canal  with  its  bridges — all  these  things 
group  themselves  together  in  memory.  When 
I  first  passed  the  home  of  Wagner  I  felt  that 
I  was  approaching  a  musical  shrine.  The  white 
bust  of  King  Ludwig  II,  his  patron,  occupies 
the  position  of  honor  in  front  of  the  house. 
The  garden  behind,  with  its  gravel  walks,  was 
where  Wagner  walked,  or  sat  and  wrote.  The 
square  brick  house  and  the  house  at  one  side 
are  plain  and  unpretentious.  At  the  back  of 
the  house  is  Wagner's  grave. 

I  did  not  visit  it  that  day.     Every  night — 
even^before    and    after    the    opera — the    city 

270 


THE   :\riNOR   CHORD  271 

resounded  with  voices  rehearsing  Wagnerian 
scores.  The  spirit  of  Wagner  pervades  every- 
thing at  Bayreuth.  His  portrait  and  bust  are 
to  be  found  in  every  home.  The  children  are 
taught  his  music  as  soon  as  they  Hsp. 

At  one  o'clock  each  day  the  carriages  are  on 
the  way  to  the  Opera  House,  which  stands  on 
a  hill  a  short  distance  from  the  town.  It  is  a 
square,  plain  building  of  brick  and  stone,  in 
which  the  stage  occupies  more  room  than  the 
auditorium.  It  was  built  for  the  production 
of  Wagner's  operas.  The  orchestra  and  direc- 
tor are  hidden  from  the  audience  beneath  a 
large  canopy  in  front  of  the  stage,  and  can  only 
be  seen  by  the  singers. 

At  four  o'clock  the  trombones  announce, 
with  that  German  bugle-call  which  seems  like 
an  unfinished  musical  phrase,  the  time  for 
beginning.  The  audience  remain  standing 
until  the  lights  are  lowered,  and  the  clatter 
of  unfolding  seats  sounds  like  a  volley  of 
musketry,  followed  by  a  breathless  silence  in 
the  darkness.  A  long  pause,  then  the  slow%  sus- 
tained notes  are  heard  with  an  ever-increasing 
crescendo. 


272  THE   MINOR   CHORD 

The  solemnity  of  the  scene  makes  it  seem  like 
a  service  of  worship.  The  chords  gather 
tenderly  and  gently — then  a  crash,  and  the 
wild  rush  of  passion,  reminding  one  of  the 
lonely  forest  scene.  The  peal  of  thunder,  the 
roar  of  rushing  waters,  the  gentle  rustle  of  leaves, 
the  gleam  of  peaceful  sunlight,  are  woven  into 
rich  symphony. 

My  mind  was  taxed  to  keep  close  to  those 
puzzling  musical  phrases,  to  know  where  to 
commence  and  where  to  finish  a  tone,  or  when 
to  hold  the  key  given  by  the  orchestra  as  they 
dashed  to  the  next  movement.  The  cue  to  the 
note  always  seemed  contrary  to  what  was 
expected;  to  plunge  into  space  for  a  perilous 
accidental — it  required  every  nerve,  but  I 
loved  it;    it  was  exhilarating. 

My  interpretation  of  Wagner's  vocal  score 
obtained  at  least  the  passive  approval  of  the 
German  critics,  who  had  been  so  severe  in 
their  previous  reviews. 

My  great  musical  ambition  was  now  achieved, 
and  I  had  conquered  in  my  favorite  role. 
Yet  in  the  supreme  moment,  with  encomiums 
of  praise  ringing  in  my  ears,  my  heart  ached 


THE   MINOR   CHORD  273 

with  loneliness — Elsa's  plaintive  lines  seemed 
to  express  my  own  feelings. 
^  Nearly  every  day  I  was  visited  by  ambitious 
American  girls  asking  me  for  advice  as  to  a 
musical  career.  Their  bright,  fair  faces 
were  refreshing,  and  what  pangs  of  regret  I  felt 
that  they  should  desire  to  give  up  their  young 
lives  for  fame,  and  sacrifice  the  contented 
serenity  of  happy  wifehood  and  motherhood! 
As  if  in  contrast  to  these  girls,  a  poor  woman, 
once  a  famous  stage  celebrity — a  popular 
danseuse  in  Paris — came  to  me  for  help.  She 
reminded  me  of  Lila  and  poor  Mr.  Burlingame, 
and  with  Mrs.  Campbell's  help  I  did  what  I 
could  for  her. 

The  only  relaxations  from  the  serious  atmos- 
phere of  my  German  engagement  were  the 
visits  of  a  young  American  newspaper  man 
who  came  to  interview^  me.  He  was  rather 
homesick  at  first,  and  told  me  of  hs  mother. 
This  touched  my  heart,  and  we  became  good 
friends  at  once.  He  recalled  certain  incidents 
in  my  career — the  "cooing  dove"  passage  in 
"The  Creation" — the  red  Elizabethan  dress 
I  wore  at  Chicago.    He  pleaded  for  "features" 


274  THE   MINOR   CHORD 

to  make  his  "copy"  bright  and  breezy,  even 
asking  me  outright  if  I  hadn't  a  love  episode 
or  two  that  I  could  spare,  as  he  thought  my 
biography  up  to  date  was  rather  tame  and 
abbreviated. 

He  little  thought  how  his  questions  pained 
me,  but  his  open,  honest  face  reminded  me  of 
a  brother  at  home,  and  I  could  not  resent  his 
curiosity. 

"And  you  were  never  married?"  he  asked. 

"I  had  rather  say  nothing.  This  printed  slip 
contains  my  biography,"  I  replied,  trying  to 
evade  his  direct  questions. 

"But  I  want  some  fresh  stuff.  Surely  you've 
had  some  love  affairs — why,  I've  had  seven 
already,  and  I'm  not  married  yet!" 

The  impudent  little  rascal!  But  his  naivete 
fascinated  me.  As  he  left  he  looked  straight 
into  my  face  and  said: 

"Madame  Helvina,  I  adore  you,  and  I  shall 
have  that  love  storv  yet." 

The  festival  passed  like  a  dream,  and  Mrs. 
Campbell  had  taken  such  excellent  care  of  me 
that  I  had  not  missed  an  engagement,  and  had 
only^been  in  poor  voice  once  or  twice. 


THE   MINOR   CHORD  275 

On  the  last  day,  as  I  gazed  out  of  the  dressing- 
room  window  at  the  throng  of  people  gathered 
in  front  of  the  Opera  House,  and  overlooking 
the  beautiful  valley,  chequered  with  fields  of 
ripening  grain,  I  could  not  help  regretting  that 
my  work  there  was  over.  The  festival  had 
been  to  me  a  life  inspiration. 

At  dusk,  the  evening  before  I  left  Bayreuth, 
I  visited  for  the  first  time  the  tomb  of  Richard 
Wagner.  Enclosed  by  tall  iron  railings  was  a 
simple  mound  of  earth,  surmounted  by  a  plain 
slab  of  granite.  On  the  four  sides  the  ivy 
clambered  as  if  to  protect  the  silent  sleeper. 
White  lilies  drooped  their  pure  blossoms  at 
each  corner.  The  sun  had  sunk  behind  the 
Opera  House,  Richard  Wagner's  real  monu- 
ment. The  twilight  gathered  softly,  and  I  felt 
as  if  in  a  vast  cathedral. 

From  this  spot  can  be  seen,  through  a  thicket 
of  small  trees,  the  summer  house  in  which  the 
master  used  to  work.  Their  lengthening 
shadows  seemed  like  silent  sentinels  gathering 
for  the  watches  of  the  night. 

As  I  stood  in  meditation,  the  sky  had  clouded; 
suddenly,   the  lightning  flashed,  the  rustle  of 


276  THE   MINOR   CHORD 

leaves  quickened  with  the  stirring  breeze,  a 
crash  of  thunder  pealed  in  terror  as  a  climax, 
and  died  away  with  soft  diminuendo  down  the 
valley.  Here  also  the  great  composer  caught 
fresh  inspiration,  always  in  soulful  communion 
with  Nature — he  caught  the  very  breath  of  the 
whirlwind  and  the  rustle  of  the  leaves  and  the 
tremendous  undulations  of  thunder. 

Great  raindrops  began  to  fall,  and  I  reluc- 
tantly turned  to  leave  with  the  adagio  finale  of 
"Parsifal"  coming  to  me  faintly: 

"Beloved  Saviour, 
Blessed  Redemption." 

He  was  at  rest,  and  his  heart's  yearning  was 
satisfied.  The  storms  and  tempests  of  mortal 
life  had  passed,  and  he  had  joined  in  the 
heavenly  symphonies,  which  have  revealed  the 
mysteries  of  life  and  love  eternal. 


CHAPTER   XXXI 

An  Operatic  Failure 

MY  dear  Helvy,  your  position  is  secure. 
Three  offers  for  engagements  are 
here  awaiting  3'our  acceptance,"  said 
Howard  joyfully  as  he  entered  my  room  one 
morning. 

"Where  are  they  from,  Howard?"  I  inquired 
eagerly. 

"One  from  Paris  and  one  from  New  York — " 

"And  the  third?" 

"Mine,"  he  said,  laughing. 

The  silly  fellow!    he  was  proposing  again. 

"The  third  is  out  of  the  question,"  I  said 
with  a  smile,  "and  I  propose  we  go  to  Brussels 
as  arranged." 

It  was  at  Brussels  that  I  met  my  friend, 
Arundel  Sunderland,  the  composer.  We  had 
met  a  year  or  so  before.  He  was  a  charming 
man,  a  clever  composer,  and  a  seasoned  bachelor 
well  in  the  forties. 

"I  am  so  glad  to  see  you,"  he  said,  as  we 

277 


278  THE   MINOR   CHORD 

shook  hands,  "and  I  hope  I  may  see  much  of 
you  during  your  stay  here." 

Howard  had  arranged  various  interesting 
excursions  for  me,  but  he  did  not  look  pleased 
when  Mr.  Sunderland  joined  us  nearly  every 
day. 

"By  the  way,  Madame  Helvina,"  said 
Arundel  one  day,  "I  have  just  finished  the  score 
of  my  first  grand  opera,  'Evangeline,'  and  I 
have  created  the  title-role  in  honor  of  a  great 
American  prima  donna." 

This  was  indeed  a  fascinating  distinction. 
He  described  to  me  in  detail  the  scenes,  the 
plot  and  action,  and  played  some  of  the  arias 
to  give  me  an  idea  of  the  theme. 

Arundel  was  so  absorbed  in  his  work  that  he 
could  think  and  talk  of  nothing  else,  and  I 
could  scarcely  wait  for  an  opportunity  to  study 
the  score. 

First  impressions  are  difficult  to  dissipate. 
When  I  heard  the  opening  measures  of  "Evan- 
geline," my  opinion  was  formed.  The  harmony 
was  certainly  massive,  but — could  I  tell  him?— 
it  was  but  an  echo  of  Wagner  with  a  reflection 
of  Gounod's  "Romeo  and  Juliet."     The  title 


THE   MINOR   CHORD  279 

role  was  simply  iinsingable.  I  tried  my  best 
to  put  soul  into  it,  but  the  opera  was  too  much 
of  a  polished  imitation  of  the  great  masters  to 
give  play  for  a  finished  and  original  conception. 
It  lacked  inspiration  and  continuity,  and 
seemed  more  of  a  compilation  of  chords  and 
arias  than  an  opera. 

"How  do  you  like  it?"  he  asked  breathlessly, 
his  black  eyes  sparkling. 

"I  have  not  been  able  to  go  over  it  fully," 
I  replied,  evasively. 

"Will  you  help  me  produce  Evangeline.'" 

"Thank  you,  I  will  try,  and  indeed  I  feel 
grateful  to  you  for  the  honor  you  do  me." 

"I  had  you  in  my  mind,  madame,  as  I  wrote 
every  measure." 

I  hardly  knew  how  to  tell  him  the  truth. 
In  light  opera  he  was  clever  and  a  hard  worker, 
and  his  triumph  would  undoubtedly  come  some 
day  in  grand  opera.  But  it  was  not  to  be 
found  in  the  score  of   "Evangeline." 

I  rehearsed  and  rehearsed,  but  it  was  of  no 
use.  It  seemed  like  an  operatic  millstone.  I 
tried  to  express  this  to  him,  but  I  could  not 
make  him  understand. 


280  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

"And  you  will  take  the  title  role?"  he  per- 
sisted one  day,  after  I  had  wearied  myself 
with  the  unsingable  score. 

"I  am  afraid,"  I  said  hesitatingly'. 

"Don't  desert  me  now,"  he  pleaded. 

"Well,  I  will  do  my  best  for  you,  but — " 

"Many  thanks  for  that  kind  assurance, 
Madame  Helvina,"  he  replied.  "With  you,  I 
know  Evangeline's  future  is  assured." 

In  a  few  weeks  we  were  in  the  midst  of  the 
final  rehearsals.  The  public  little  realizes  the 
immense  amount  of  hard  work  and  drudgery 
required  to  stage  a  new  opera. 

The  first  night  arrived. 

The  overture  began.  My  nervousness  in- 
creased, as  even  the  opening  song  was  un- 
manageable. The  love-making  of  the  first  act 
passed  off  smoothly  enough,  excepting  for  a 
few  blunders  of  the  "prop"  man,  and  that  when 
one  of  the  "boats"  refused  to  float  majestically 
the  pit  and  gallery  were  amused.  In  the  second 
act,  during  a  pathetic  search  for  missing  Gabriel, 
I  tried  my  best  to  make  music  of  the  score, 
but  at  the  most  unfortunate  moment  the  tenor 
broke  on  his  high  C  and  there  was  confusion. 


THE   MINOR   CHORD  281 

I  rallied  the  chorus  on  the  ensemble,  but  felt 
that  the  opera  had  failed. 

With  a  flush  of  excitement  Arundel  came  to 
me  after  the  finale. 

"Madame  Helvina,  I  can  never  thank  you 
enough;  you  have  carried  the  opera,"  and  he 
led  me  before  the  curtain  to  receive  the  ac- 
knowledgments of  the  audience,  who  were  in- 
dulging in  the  usual  first-night  enthusiasm. 

The  newspaper  critics  next  morning  con- 
firmed my  fears;  they  said  I  was  unequal  to 
the  role  and  that  my  voice  was  rapidly  failing. 
The  opera  had  only  a  short  run,  as  the  managers 
were  panic-stricken.  It  was  rather  an  inglorious 
sequel  to  my  continental  success. 

Howard  was  furious  and  had  no  sympathy 
for  Arundel,  who  was  rather  crushed. 

"I  will  make  them  regret  it  yet,"  hissed 
Arundel.  "If  it  were  not  for  you,  I  should  not 
care,  but  you  sacrificed  yourself  for  me." 

"Oh,  no,  no,"  I  protested.  "We  must  expect 
ups  and  downs  and  be  ready  to  make  sacrifices." 

"Would  you  make  another  sacrifice  for  me.'^" 

"What  is  that.'*"  I  inquired. 

"Win  you  be  my  wife?     You  surely  intend 


282  THE   MINOR   CHORD 

to  retire  from  the  stage  some  day?  Let  us 
live  together  for  the  divine  art." 

"It  can  never  be,"  I  told  him. 

"Why.'^"  he  demanded. 

"I  shall  never  marry." 

"Let  us  always  be  friends,  then,"  he  said 
gently,  "and  forget  what  I  have  said." 

"Thank  you,"  I  replied,  "I  cannot  afford  to 
lose  my  friends,"  and  I  gave  him  my  hand. 

"You  will  remain  my  life's  inspiration,"  he 
said  earnestly. 


CHAPTER   XXXII 

Professional  Etstvy  and  Feminine  Spite 

DURING  the  following  weeks  I  was  sur- 
prised by  a  visit  from  the  young 
American  newspaper  man  whom  I  had 
met  at  Bayreuth. 

"Madame  Helvina,"  he  exclaimed  after  greet- 
ing, "I've  got  a  bully  good  love  story." 

"When  did  you  arrive?"  I  asked. 

"This  morning,  madame,  and  the  article 
would  be  just  right  if  you'd  only  allow  me  a 
wee  bit  of  romance  to  work  up.  I  can  fix  it. 
Please  do."  His  eyes  danced  with  real  delight 
and  enthusisam. 

"No,  my  boy,  my  life  is  my  own.  And  I 
don't  like  deception." 

"Yes,  but  this  is  a  corker— better  than  stolen 
diamonds — or  getting  married — or  a  divorce — 
it's  a  husband  in  the  air!" 

I  paled  under  his  glance.  Did  he  know  the 
truth?     I  must  find  out. 

"WTiat    nonsense   have   you    in    your   head 

283 


284  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

now?"  I  inquired,  trying  to  seem  amused. 
"Come  and  see  me  after  rehearsal.  I  cannot 
remain  to  talk  now." 

After  he  had  gone  I  wondered  what  had 
suggested  the  idea  to  him. 

During  this  engagement  my  first  real  trouble 
with  the  rival  prima  donnas,  of  whom  I  w^as 
one,  occurred.  Quarrels  behind  the  scenes 
furnish  lively  green-room  gossip,  but  to  me 
they  were  most  revolting,  and  I  had  hitherto 
successfully  avoided  them. 

"I  will  not  sing  with  Helvina."  It  was 
Marie  Almster  talking  to  the  manager  in  my 
hearing.  Hoping  to  avoid  a  quarrel,  I  paid  no 
attention  to  any  of  her  remarks.  "She  has 
snubbed  me  and  has  talked  too  much,"  she 
continued. 

"You  will  not  help  matters  any  by  not 
singing  with  her,"  protested  the  manager, 
"but  you  will  injure  me." 

"You  ought  to  know  better,"  she  stormed, 
"than  to  sign  with  that  American  upstart. 
She  thinks  herself  too  fine  and  comes  of  a 
bourgeoise  family." 

I  could  stand  it  no  longer. 


THE   ]MINOR   CHORD  285 

"The  3'oiing  lady  will  not  have  the  oppor- 
tunity of  singing  with  me,"  I  interposed. 

"What!"  gasped  the  manager.  "You,  too, 
Madame  Helvina!" 

"I  will  sing  an  extra  solo,"  I  said,  "and 
you  can  cut  the  duet  in  the  concert  program." 

"But  it  will  be  too  much  of  a  strain  on  your 
voice,"  he  reproved. 

"Never  mind;  the  program  shall  not  suffer 
bv  this  unfortunate  affair." 

"This  is  not  the  end,  Madame  Helvina," 
said  the  little  German  lady,  looking  at  me 
fiercely. 

It  was  only  an  ordinary  stage  quarrel,  but 
somehow  the  threat  of  Marie  Almster  worried 
me. 

The  events  of  the  day  had  put  me  in  a  most 
miserable  frame  of  mind,  and  when  I  arrived 
home  a  cablegram  was  handed  me.  Another 
offer  for  an  American  engagement!  thought  I, 
as  I  tore  it  open,  but  instead  of  that  the  cruel 
message  met  my  eyes: 

"Tod  died  this  morning — will  be  buried 
Wednesday. 

"Maxwell." 


286  THE   MINOR   CHORD 

As  the  broken  arc  of  the  little  home  circle 
appeared  to  me  in  my  grief,  how  empty  and 
vain  seemed  my  struggle  for  fame.  Tod,  little 
Tod!  how  his  face  haunted  me,  as  I  lingered 
in  memory  over  the  last  time  I  had  seen  him! 

I  longed  to  start  for  home  at  once  to  comfort 
mother  in  her  deep  sorrow. 

"No,"  came  the  cruel  demand  of  business. 
"Your  engagements  must  be  fulfilled." 

Only  a  few  hours  in  a  distant  land  to  mourn 
a  dead  brother!  How  every  scene  at  that 
death-bed  was  pictured,  and  how  vividly  it 
brought  back  memories  of  little  Joe.  One 
more  grave  on  the  hill ! 

My  eyes,  red  from  weeping,  were  covered 
with  powder  that  night  as  I  threw  myself  into 
my  task  with  an  aching  heart. 

The  minor  passages  were  in  tune  with  my 
heart,  as  in  fancy  I  joined  our  grief-stricken 
household. 

My  lips  were  sealed  to  all  but  Mrs.  Campbell, 
who  had,  indeed,  proved  herself  a  true  mother 
to  a  wandering  singer,  and  had  been  my  con- 
stant companion  since  those  student  days  in 
Paris. 


THE   MINOR   CHORD  287 

"I  must  return  at  once  to  America,  Howard," 
I  said  one  day. 

"M}'  dear  Helvy,"  he  gasped,  "we  are  just 
on  the  point  of  signing  the  greatest  contract 
vou  have  ever  had." 

"Howard,"  I  repeated,  "I  must  go." 

"Well,"  he  said  philosophically,  "I  suppose 
one  can  never  reckon  on  a  woman's  whim." 

I  was  determined  to  go.  It  was  one  of  those 
times  when  the  whole  world  seemed  as  nothing 
compared  with  the  loved  ones  at  home. 

"Very  well,  then,"  Howard  finally  assented, 
"we  will  sail  next  week." 

Marie  Almster  sang  with  me  the  last  evening 
I  appeared  in  opera  prior  to  sailing  for  America. 
In  a  quarrel  scene  she  actually  became  in  ear- 
nest and  savagely  bit  my  arm.  I  screamed  out 
in  pain  and  rushed  from  the  stage.  The  director 
was  thunderstruck,  and  it  looked  as  if  the 
opera  would  fall  in  a  crash  during  that  duet. 
Gene  Paroski,  who  sang  that  night,  was  waiting 
in  the  wing  for  his  cue.  He  saw  what  had  hap- 
pened and  took  in  the  situation  at  a  glance. 
He  hurried  on  before  his  cue,  and  the  director, 
seeming    to    divine    his    motive,    held    up    the 


288  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

orchestra  to  finish  a  phrase,  and  gave  the 
signal  for  the  opening  bars  of  Gene's  aria. 
While  the  orchestra  were  finding  their  places 
he  kept  a  single  violin  playing  an  impromptu 
interlude.  Madame  Almster  stood  as  if  dazed 
when  Gene  made  his  unexpected  appearance, 
but,  as  if  it  had  been  a  part  of  the  "busi- 
ness," he  unceremoniously  dragged  her  from 
the  stage. 

It  was  evident  that  she  had  deliberately 
planned  to  mar  the  performance  and  to  injure 
my  musical  reputation. 

Once  in  the  dressing-room  she  was  furious 
and  raved  like  a  mad  woman. 

"I   hate  her!"   she   shrieked   "I   hate   her!" 

Fortunately  her  understudy  was  able  to 
complete  the  few  remaining  numbers.  I  was 
compelled  to  continue,  although  my  arm  was 
stinging  with  pain.  I  never  heard  Gene 
Paroski  sing  better. 

The  audience,  little  realizing  the  tempest 
raging  behind  the  scenes,  gave  us  the  most 
enthusiastic  reception  of  the  season. 

Gene  Paroski  and  I  had  a  longer  talk  than 
usual  that  night. 


THE   MINOR   CHORD  289 

"When  did  you  notice  anything  wrong 
tonight?"  I  asked. 

"Not  until  she  attacked  you,"  he  repHed. 
"Her  face  looked  like  that  of  a  maniac,  and 
I  was  determined  to  stop  her  and  save  the 
opera,  if  I  had  to  fling  her  into  the  pit." 

It  was  a  nine  days'  excitement  in  operatic 
circles,  but  the  sensation  subsided  without  an 
open  scandal. 

The  preparations  for  returning  to  America 
proceeded  rapidly,  and  among  the  trophies 
which  I  carried  back  was  a  street  piano  organ — 
a  hurdy-gurdy.  I  had  become  quite  fascinated 
with  them  in  London  and  on  the  continent, 
where  my  morning  slumber  was  broken  by 
the  refrain  of  the  popular  airs  that  come  and  go 
with  each  generation.  I  must  confess  these 
airs  had  a  piquant  charm  for  me  after  a  concen- 
trated study  of  Wagner's  music. 

"Howard,  I  want  a  hurdy-gurdy  to  take 
back  to  America,"  I  had  said  one  day. 

He  was  astonished. 

"There  is  no  explaining  these  women,"  he 
murmured  audibly.  But  he  bought  the  hurdy- 
gurdy,  nevertheless. 


290  THE   MINOR  CHORD 

As  I  stood  upon  the  deck  of  the  steamer 
which  Wcas  about  to  sail,  Hal  Cogswell,  the 
irrepressible  young  reporter  I  had  met  again 
at  Bayreuth,  came  running  up  the  gangway. 

"Deny  it — deny  it — a  lie  and  a  slander! 
Sue  them,  or  I'll  kill  them!"  he  cried. 

"What  has  happened?"  I  asked. 

"Read  this,"  he  exclaimed,  handing  me  a 
London  newspaper  with  a  marked  paragraph. 

It  was  one  of  those  cheap  publications  edited 
by  a  masculine  "Lady  Sneerwell,"  whose 
specific  object  was  to  probe  into  the  privacy  of 
homes  and  to  retail  scandal.     I  read: 

"It  Looks  Strange. — Madame  Helvina's 
sudden  departure  for  America,  after  signing 
contracts  for  numerous  engagements,  occasions 
considerable  speculation  in  theatrical  circles. 
Some  intimate  that  her  managers  are  fearful 
of  their  bargain  and  ask  to  be  released  because 
her  voice  is  failing  and  her  acting  lacks  the  fire 
and  vivacity  of  youth;  other  assert  that  there 
is  a  scandal  with  the  tenor  and  that  they  are 
going  to  be  married  in  America  as  soon  as  he 
secures  his  divorce.  Madame  Helvina  has  a 
large  circle  of  admirers,  who  will  regret  this 
cloud  upon  her  artistic  career." 


THE   MINOR   CHORD  291 

During  the  whole  of  my  Hfe  this  was  the 
first  time  a  suspicion  had  been  breathed  against 
my  cliaracter.  That  was  the  one  thing  I  held 
dearer  than  life.  It  had  been  burned  into  my 
very  soul  by  mother  that  without  purity  a 
woman  has  lost  her  greatest  defense. 

"Who  could  have  been  so  cruel  and  ma- 
licious.^" I  said  with  tears  starting. 

"I  suspect  Almster,"  said  Hal,  "and  if  you 
will  give  me  authority,  I  will  make  her  sweat 
blood  for  this  cowardly  trick." 

"Hal,"  I  said,  "you  are  a  good  boy." 

"And  you're  my  queen,  Madame  Helvina. 
I'm  hanged  if  I  don't  feel  like  fighting  a  duel 
with  the  cowardlv  editor. 

"I'm  going  to  stay  here  a  month  longer  any 
way,  and  see  this  thing  through." 

The  bell  sounded  an  interruption. 

"Good-bye,  Hal,"  I  said,  looking  into  his 
earnest  bovish  face. 

"Good-bye.  Remember  you've  got  a  friend 
in  me  forever,"  he  said,  as  he  hurried  through 
the  surging  crowd.  The  last  I  saw  of  him,  he 
was  waving  the  Stars  and  Stripes  from  among 
the  throng  on  the  pier. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

Some  Domestic  Tragedies 

I  MUST  have  another  week's  hoHday  alone," 
I  said  to  Howard  the  day  we  reached 
Chicago. 

He  seemed  to  suspect  that  there  was  a 
secret,  but  Mrs.  Campbell  satisfied  his  curiosity 
in  some  way,  and  he  grumbled  an  assent. 

How  consoling  it  was  to  feel  my  mother's 
thin  and  trembling  arms  about  my  neck  as 
we  buried  our  faces  in  each  other's  shoulder 
and  wept  together  after  my  arrival  home. 

"Where  is  Tim?     Is  he  still  living.^" 

Mother  seemed  to  anticipate  the  inquiry. 

"Yes,  but  he  is  a  wreck— an  invalid — and 
his  children  are  so  devoted  to  him!  Will  you 
see  him?  He  sits  every  afternoon  in  his  chair 
under  the  maples,  where  you  children  used  to 
play." 

We  passed  across  the  street.  A  little  daugh- 
ter with  golden  curls,  the  very  image  of  Tim, 
wheeled  him  out  in  his  chair.    His  face  was  pale 

29« 


THE  MINOR   CHORD  293 

and  wan,  and  yet  how  spirituelle!  The  fire 
of  youth's  ambition  was  quenched;  it  was  a 
peaceful,  palHd  face. 

His  countenance  brightened  with  that  famil- 
iar old  smile  as  we  approached. 

"Oh,  it's  Mrs.  Maxwell,  I  know.  How  kind 
of  3'ou!    But  who's — " 

"It's  Minza,  Tim!"  I  cried,  going  toward  him. 

He  did  not  seem  to  recognize  me.  He  turned 
toward  me. 

"Don't  vou  know  me,  Tim?"  I  continued. 

"Minza,  little  Minza  of  long  ago!"  he  cried. 
"God  bless  you!  Come  nearer  and  let  me  touch 
you." 

"Here  I  am,  Tim,"  I  said,  taking  his  hand. 
"Why  don't  you  look  at  me?" 

"Haven't  they  told  you,  Minza?" 

"Told  me  what?" 

"I  am  blind."  His  voice  broke.  "I  can 
never  see  you  again." 

I  kneJt  and  he  placed  his  hands  on  my  head, 
just  as  in  the  old  days  when  we  were  children. 

"Such  pretty  hair,  jNIinza!" 

Blind!  O  love  of  my  childhood,  how  my 
heart  went  out  to  him! 


294  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

His  affliction  obliterated  the  memory  of 
our  last  meeting,  and  I  could  only  remember 
the  Tim  of  my  youth.  There  was  the  old 
familiar  wave  of  the  hand,  the  tw^itch  of  the 
brow,  that  even  time  and  trouble  had  not 
effaced. 

It  was  touching  to  see  how  dependent  he 
was  on  the  two  children  who  remained  at 
home,  while  the  eldest,  a  girl  prematurel^v'  old 
for  her  years,  earned  a  living  to  support  her 
blind  father. 

Mother  left  us  happily  talking  together 
under  the  maples,  and  when  I  returned  to  her 
she  told  me  the  pathetic  story  of  how  Tim 
had  lost  his  sight. 

After  the  death  of  Angela  he  was  ill  for  some 
time,  and  he  made  a  desperate  effort  to  conquer 
his  appetite  for  drink.  He  was  successful, 
but  scarcely  had  that  dark  cloud  disappeared 
when  his  sight  was  threatened.  In  spite  of 
all  that  the  most  eminent  oculists  could  do, 
he  returned  home — just  one  year  after  Angela's 
death — hopelessly  blind. 

He  had  paid  a  heavy  penalty  for  those  years 
of  dissipation. 


THE   MINOR   CHORD  295 

The  eldest  girl,  whom  Miss  Riser  declared  to 
be  "the  smartest  pupil  who  ever  went  through 
the  district  school,"  put  her  young  shoulder  to 
the  wheel,  and  secured  employment  in  a  large 
town  nearby  as  a  clerk.  They  were  expecting 
her  home  the  next  day.  Her  father  was  very 
proud  of  her,  and  even  my  brother  Jim  sang 
her  praises  to  me. 

"Zella  is  so  like  you,"  Tim  said  to  me  one 
day.  "She  is  a  good  girl  and  ambitious  to  be 
somebody.     She  has  a  real  business  head." 

That  afternoon  under  the  maples  it  was  all 
decided.  Zella  was  to  go  with  me  to  study 
music. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

The  Tour  in  America 

WHEN  I  returned  to  Chicago  I  had 
quite  made  up  my  mind  that  my 
duty  as  a  daughter  was  greater  than 
my  career  as  a  prima  donna. 

"It  must  be  my  farewell  tour,"  I  said  firmly 
to  Howard. 

"But,  Helvy,  they  will  laugh  and  make  sport 
of  you.  The  newspapers  will  consider  it  all  a 
joke." 

"I  do  not  care,"  I  said  defiantly.  "I  owe 
a  duty  to  my — "  I  stopped  suddenly. 

"To  whom.?"  he  demanded. 

"To  my  parents,"  I  replied. 

"Now,  Helvy,"  he  entreated,  "put  aside 
that  idea.  It  is  for  their  interest  as  well 
as—" 

"No,  Howard,"  I  put  in  wearily.  "I  must 
retire.  The  ties  of  blood  are  stronger  than  the 
ties  of  art  or  salaries.  Besides,  the  conductor's 
baton  has  become  to  me  a  black  demon.    I  live, 

296 


THE   MINOR   CHORD  297 

move  and  breathe  under  its  magic  spell  on  the 
stage  and  forget  my  duty  as  a  daughter." 

"But  the  worst  is  now  over.  We  could  give 
concert  tours." 

"Yes,  but,  as  in  the  opera,  one  false  move, 
one  wrong  breath,  and  the  orchestra  are 
chasing  awaj'^  with  the  thread  of  harmony 
snapped.  The  flash  of  the  wand  has  become  so 
irksome  to  me  that  I  fear  I  shall  lose  my  mind 
if  I  continue." 

"No,  no,"  he  protested  quickly.  "You  need 
rest,  then  you  will  be  all  right.  I  had  arranged 
for  four  seasons  ahead." 

The  stage  had  suddenly  grown  repulsive  to 
me.  The  atmosphere  of  the  dressing-room  was 
oppressive,  with  its  dark  make-up  for  Carmen; 
with  the  white  bottles  and  blonde  braided 
wigs  for  Elsa  and  Marguerite.  They  now 
seemed  like  heavy  armor  to  a  worn  and  weary 
knight.  Besides,  the  recent  events  at  home 
unsettled  me.  Mother  and  father  were  growing 
old,  and  I  felt  that  I  owed  a  duty  to  them,  and 
ought  to  give  up  my  selfish  ambitions.  I  had 
tried  before  I  left  for  Chicago  to  get  them  to 
accompany  me. 


298  THE   MINOR   CHORD 

"No,  Minza,"  said  father,  "we  used  to  do 
it  when  you  and  mother  gave  your  concerts, 
but  we  are  too  old  now." 

I  thought  that  my  determination  was  fixed 
when  we  started  on  that  farewell  tour  and  I 
bade  good-bye  to  the  familiar  scenes  in  the 
opera  houses  we  w^ere  visiting.  But  we  had  not 
been  out  many  weeks  before  an  event  took 
place  to  modify  my  decision.  My  old  rival, 
Almster,  was  making  a  tour  of  America  in 
light  opera.  She  was  having  good  success,  had 
had  her  diamonds  stolen,  had  been  married 
several  times,  and  the  newspapers  bristled 
with  spicy  items  about  the  "captivating  Ger- 
man prima  donna." 

Howard  had  evidently  been  studying  woman- 
kind and  now  kept  me  informed  as  to  her 
movements.  The  furore  she  caused  was  irri- 
tating, and  yet  I  wanted  to  read  the  accounts 
of  her  tour  and  its  success.  One  day,  as  if  in 
triumph,  Howard  brought  me  a  paper.  "Read 
that!"  he  shouted. 

It  was  an  interview  with  Almster,  giving 
her  opinion  of  Madame  Helvina. 

She  stated: 


THE   MINOR   CHORD  299 

"Poor  Helvina  is  now  on  her  farewell  tour. 
She  is  nearly  sixty  years  of  age,  and  a  grand- 
mother. She  bears  her  age  remarkably  well, 
but  her  voice  is  not  what  it  has  been;  even 
prima  donnas  must  grow  old." 

There  was  a  sting  in  this  that  startled  me, 
and  the  old  resentment  and  rivalry  once  more 
asserted  themselves.  I  was  willing  to  retire 
from  the  field  with  my  modest  little  wreath  of 
laurel,  but  not  under  fire. 

"Howard,"  I  said,  "have  all  the  bills  changed 
and  take  off  that  farewell  tour  line.  I  intend 
to  remain  at  work  a  little  longer." 

Howard  was  in  high  glee.  "Bless  you, 
Helvy,"  he  cried,  "you're  a  trump,  and  a 
sensible  woman,  after  all.  We'll  show  that  fussy 
little  busybody  yet!"  he  said  defiantly  as  he 
hurried  out. 

Later  it  flashed  upon  me  that  Howard 
might  have  been  the  author  of  that  interview. 
But  I  could  not  change  my  mind  again. 

Before  the  close  of  my  Chicago  engagement 
I  received  a  letter  from  a  firm  of  lawj'ers, 
stating  that,  if  I  made  affidavits  affirming 
specific    knowledge    of    the    death    of    Robert 


300  THE   MINOR   CHORD 

Burnette,  they  would  secure  the  insurance 
money  due  on  his  Hfe. 

"Connor  &  Cogswell"  read  the  letter-head, 
with  "Harold  S.  Cogswell"  engraved  in  the 
right-hand  corner  as  junior  partner.  He  had 
evidently  left  his  newspaper  work  to  become  a 
lawyer.  I  remembered  the  wonderful  news- 
paper storj^  he  had  ferreted  out  and  confronted 
me  with  at  the  dock  before  I  had  sailed  to 
America.  He  had  followed  the  clew  even  into 
the  new  profession  he  had  taken  up,  and  I 
wondered  if  he  now  knew  the  real  truth.  Would 
my  real  history  be  revealed  to  the  world? 

I  wrote  stating  that  I  held  no  proofs  of  my 
husband's  death,  and  signed  for  the  first  time 
in  many  years  my  real  name,  "Minza  Burnette." 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

The  Old  Hearthstone  Vanishes 

TELEGRAPHIC   news!     How   the  secret 
sorrows   and    joys   of   life   are   revealed 
bv   the  dots   and   dashes  as  they   flash 
from  the  telegraph  operator's  fingers  hundreds 
of  miles  away! 

In  the  midst  of  our  triumphal  tour  on  the 
Pacific  Coast,  when  there  appeared  to  be  a 
rift  in  the  clouds  of  my  life,  I  received  a 
telegram : 

"Father   very   ill.     Come— Mother." 

All  my  dates  were  cancelled,  and  the  sus- 
pense of  that  journey  home  I  can  never  forget. 
The  surging  crowds  in  a  railway  train  seldom 
think  of  the  various  emotions  mingled  with 
its  roar,  or  of  the  heavy  hearts  reflected  in  the 
sad  eyes  of  passengers.     Should  I  reach  home 

in  time? 

All  was  still  about  the  old  house  as  I  entered 
— there  was  not  a  sound. 

301 


302  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

"Father,  father!"  I  cried. 

My  only  answer  was  my  mother's  sobbing 
as  she  met  me.     Her  eyes  told  the  story. 

"Minza,"  she  said,  "he  is  at  rest,"  and  bowed 
her  tired  head  upon  my  shoulder. 

I  could  only  say  "My  dear,  dear  mother," 
and  caress  with  tense  fingers  the  soft  gray 
hair  of  the  little  mother  whose  firm,  helpful 
courage  had  broken  down  at  last.  At  first  I 
could  not  cry;  my  heart  was  hot  within  me, 
and  I  fear  rebelled  against  God.  I  comforted 
mother  all  I  could,  but  I  felt  that  I  myself  was 
beyond  comfort  or  comforting  until  I,  too, 
could  find  relief  in  tears. 

At  the  funeral,  however,  when  the  soft  notes 
of  "Just  as  I  Am,  without  One  Plea"  (father's 
favorite  hymn)  burst  forth,  I  completely  broke 
down.  The  weak,  trembling  and  aged  voice 
of  the  minister,  dear  old  Mr.  Frazer,  tried  to 
comfort  our  grief-stricken  hearts. 

The  Grand  Army  of  the  Republic,  the 
Masons,  in  their  regalia  and  white  gloves, 
gathered  to  do  honor  to  a  dead  comrade.  The 
last  sad  rites  were  over,  and  never  will  the  soft 
minor  refrain  of  Plej^el's  hymn,  sung  ^  by  the 


THE   MINOR   CHORD  303 

Masons  in  a  husky  voice  as  they  marched 
around    the    grave,    fade    from    my    memory. 

The  final  burial  salute  was  fired  by  the  old 
army  comrades. 

Who  does  not  remember  how  that  vacant 
place  at  the  head  of  the  table,  that  empty  chair 
at  the  fireside,  the  memory  of  a  kindly  voice, 
silent  forever,  changes  a  cheerful  home  into  a 
lonely  tarrying  place? 

"Some  banquet-hall  deserted, 

Whose  lights  are  fled, 

Whose  garlands  dead 

And  all  but  he  departed." 

"Mother,"  I  said  a  few  days  after  the  funeral, 
"we  must  go  away  tomorrow." 

"My  dear,"  she  replied  sadly,  "I  am  too  old; 
don't  tear  me  away  from  my  loved  ones. 
While  I  live  I  want  to  be  near  my  boys  and 
Robert." 

"But,  mother,  you  have  the  living  to  look 
after.  Jim  is  going  to  finish  at  college,  and 
vou  must  come  with  me." 

"Minza,  let  us  cease  the  struggle  for  am- 
bition that  I  taught  you."  She  paused. 
"Oh,"     she     moaned,    "you     do     not     know 


304  THE   MINOR   CHORD 

how  I  loved  your  father.  My  heart  is — is — " 
She  quite  broke  down. 

"Yes;  but,  mother,  we  must  face  Hfe  again. 
Let  it  be  together." 

It  was  a  dreary,  windy  day  when  we  closed 
the  old  home  and  turned  the  key  in  the  door. 
The  old  maples  sighed;  the  hammocks  swung 
sadlj'  under  the  evergreens;  it  was  autumn 
again. 

A  last  glance  at  the  window  across  the  way> 
and  I  saw  Zella  standing  by  her  father's  side- 
Poor  blind  Tim  could  not  see  us,  but  his  hand 
waved  a  farewell,  and  we  began  life  over  again 
— mother  and  I. 

The  journey  back  to  the  coast  was  a  sad 
one.  I  bent  every  energy  in  trying  to  make 
mother  interested  in  the  scenery  and  to  absorb 
her  in  the  eventful  musical  season.  Her  love 
for  music  was  great,  but  her  heart  was  indeed 
broken,  and  only  for  Howard  she  would 
have  remained  alone  at  the  hotel  many  times 
while  I  was  in  the  opera  house.  She  regarded 
Howard  as  a  real  friend,  and  I  never  could 
forget  his  solicitous  care  for  her.  But  she  never 
rallied  from  the  blow  of  father's  death. 


THE  MINOR   CHORD  305 

One  night,  when  I  had  returned  late  from 
the  opera,  she  became  unconscious.  A  doctor 
was  called,  but  still  I  felt  no  particular  anxiety, 
as  I  had  nursed  her  through  these  attacks 
many  times  before.  The  doctor's  face  became 
very  grave.  Suddenly  the  sleeper  woke,  and 
began  singing  in  a  weak,  trembling  voice. 

There's  a  land  that  is  fairer  than  day, 
And  bv  faith  we  can  see  it  afar. 

"Mother,  mother,"  I  protested,  "you  must 
not  exert  yourself  so  much." 

There  was  a  strange  light  in  her  eyes,  and 
again  she  became  drowsy  and  unconscious. 

Howard  was  called,  and  her  breath  came 
faster  and  faster.  The  livid  lips  turned  purple, 
and  she  responded  but  feebly  to  my  impul- 
sive kiss.  She  looked  so  pleadingly  into  my 
face  with  those  deep  blue  eyes  as  the  death- 
light  glowed  in  them! 

"She  is  dying!"  I  cried.  "Mother,  mother, 
don't  leave  Minza.  O  doctor,  she  must  not 
die,  she  must  not  die." 

"\Ye  cannot  do  anything  now,"  he  replied 
gently. 


306  THE   MINOR   CHORD 

"Good-bye,  Minza,"  she  said  almost  in  a 
whisper,  as  I  bent  over  her  to  catch  the 
words.  "Good-bye,  my  child;  remember — 
remember — " 

Again  she  sang  in  a  feebler  voice, 

"There  is  a  land — " 

The  line  was  never  finished;  a  weary  sigh, 
and  I  was  motherless  as  well  as  fatherless. 
The  family  hearthstone  had  vanished. 

Even  Howard  seemed  cruel  in  coming  for 
directions.  No  sleep  could  I  bring  to  my  eyes; 
tears  would  not  flow;  and  hour  by  hour  the 
terrible  realization  grew  upon  me — mother 
was  gone. 

The  flickering  shadows  of  the  lowered  light 
seemed  to  give  life  to  the  sleeping  face,  but 
when  I  kissed  her  ice-cold  lips  the  truth  came 
to  me — I  was  alone  with  mother,  and  I  had 
torn  her  from  her  old  home ! 

All  at  once  the  tension  in  my  brain  gave 
way  and  I  felt  that  I  was  mad.  Let  them  bury 
two  bodies  in  that  little  Western  cemetery,  and 
let  me  sleep  with  mother.  I  would  end  my 
existence. 


THE   MINOR   CHORD  307 

"Helvy,  Helvy,"  asked  Howard,  coming  in 
to  find  me  thus,  "what  are  you  doing  here?" 

*T  wish  I  were  dead!"  I  moaned. 

"I,  too,  grew  to  love  her  as  mother,"  he  said, 
softly,  pointing  to  the  quiet  form  in  the  casket; 
"let  me  just  take  your  hand." 

"O  Howard,  I  cannot  live  now,"  I  pleaded; 
"let  me  die." 

"Die!  Live,  Helvy,  live!  What  would  she 
say.?" 

He  had  touched  the  right  chord,  and  tears 
came  to  mv  relief. 

Brother  Jim  had  been  married  only  a  few 
weeks  and  came  from  his  honeymoon  there 
with  his  pretty  wife.  I  loved  the  boy,  but  he 
and  his  bride  were  wrapped  up  in  each  other, 
and  she  was  able  to  comfort  him.  In  the  great 
hour  of  grief,  brother  and  sister  seemed  to  have 
drifted  apart. 

My  future  seemed  a  blank.  I  felt  as  though 
I  could  not  tear  myself  away  from  that  new- 
made  grave,  and  from  the  holy  benediction  of 
a  mother's  love. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 
The  Insane  Aeronaut 

A  FEW    days    later    I    was    surprised    to 
receive    a    visit    from    the    irrepressible 
Hal    Cogswell,    the    hustling    reporter, 
more  recently  a  lawyer,  who  had  declared  that 
he  would  yet  surprise  the  secret  of  "Madame 
Helvina's"  love  life. 

"I  have  learned  the  secret  of  your  life, 
Madame  Helvina,  since  we  met  in  Europe; 
and  your  kindness  to  me  made  me  resolve  to 
help  you,  and  I've  found  him." 

'Who.?"  I  asked  listlessly. 

'Why,  Mr.  Burnette,"  he  replied. 

I  shivered. 

"Don't  you  want  to  hear  of  your  hus — " 

"Mv  husband!" 

When  we  were  in  the  house  he  told  me  the 
story. 

In  a  secluded  mad-house  in  Germany,  Hal 
believed  he  had  found  poor  Robert  Burnette. 

"There  is  no  doubt  of  it,  Madame  Helvina. 

308 


THE   MINOR   CHORD  309 

I  came  upon  it  quite  accidental!}^  while  reading 
an  official  report  of  the  patients.  This  poor 
fellow  was  found  near  a  collapsed  balloon, 
a  raving  maniac.  Although  he  mumbles  in 
German,  there  is  no  doubt  in  my  mind  that  he 
is  your  husband." 

"Yes,  but  how  do  you  know.^"  I  inquired, 
interested. 

"Because  the  keeper  told  me  he  constantly 
repeats  one  name,  'Minza,  INIinza,'  and  talks 
of  balloons." 

My  poor  Robert! 

"And  is  there  any  hope?" 

"No,  I  am  afraid  not,  but  if  you  will  allow 
me,  I  will  secure  the  necessary  papers  and  bring 
him  home." 

I  decided  there  and  then  that  he  should 
bring  my  husband  home  to  me. 

"Will  you  go  with  me  to  see  my  blind  school- 
mate.^" I  said  after  we  had  finished  our  talk. 

We  went  across  the  street,  and  he  took 
poor  Tim's  hands  and  spoke  very  tenderly  of 
his  affliction. 

"Well,  it's  worth  losing  your  eyes  to  have 
such  a  friend  as  Madame — " 


310  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

I  hushed  him.  "My  name  is  Minza,"  I 
whispered. 

"Yes,  Minza,"  he  echoed. 

Just  then  Zella  came  out.  I  had  heard  of 
love  at  first  sight,  and  surely  it  was  before 
me! 

"Zella,  Zella,  you  here!"  cried  Hal,  going 
toward  her  to  shake  hands. 

"This  is  my  home,  Hal,"  she  responded, 
"and   this   is   my   father,"   pointing  to  Tim. 

Evidently  they  had  met  before;  it  was  not 
love  at  first  sight,  after  all,  for  Hal  had  been 
here  for  a  clue  and  found  the  girl. 

The  young  couple  soon  forgot  Tim  and  me. 
After  a  time  Zella  left  Hal's  side  and  beckoned 
me  to  come  with  her  into  the  house,  leaving 
Hal  with  Tim. 

She  threw  her  arms  about  my  neck  and 
kissed  me.  "Why,  my  dear,"  I  asked  inno- 
cently, "what  can  be  the  matter?  Hal  hasn't 
asked  you  to  marry  him,  has  he.^" 

V  '(■  •r*  'I* 

Hal  left  on  his  mission  and  I  returned  to 
complete  my  engagements  and  continue  my 
season's  work. 


THE  MINOR  CHORD  311 

After  mother's  death  Howard  was  especially 
kind  and  thoughtful  of  me.  As  a  man,  he 
never  seemed  so  close  to  me  before.  Traits 
in  his  character  revealed  themselves  in  those 
few  days  of  grief  and  sorrow,  that  in  all  the 
previous  years  of  our  business  associations 
had  not  been  drawn  upon.  He  was  patient  with 
me  in  all  my  whims  and  always  tender  in 
speaking  of  mother. 

"Helvy,"  he  said  earnestly  one  day,  "I  will 
never  bother  you  with  love  pleadings;  I  am 
simply  your  manager;  but  remember  you  are 
the  only  woman  I  have  ever  loved  or  ever  will, 
and  some  dav  if  you  ever  find  you  return  that 
love,  we  will  be  married." 

"But,  Howard,  you  do  not  understand.  It 
can  never  be.    I'm — I'm — married!" 

"What!"  he  cried,  his  face  paling.  "And 
you  did  not  let  me  know.^  Oh,  Helvy,  Helvy, 
how  could  you.'^" 

"Howard,"  I  replied,  "I  was  married  before 
I  knew  3^ou,"  and  I  told  him  the  story  of  poor 
Robert. 

"Brave  little  woman!"  he  ejaculated  when  I 
had  finished.    "And  that  young  rascal  of  a  Hal 


312  THE   MINOR   CHORD 

has  gone  to  bring  you  back  an  insane  husband ! 
But,  Helvy,  you  know  his  insanity  releases 
you." 

"Legally  it  may,  but  morally  it  does  not. 
Howard,  I  am  a  wife." 

"I  respect  your  convictions;  but,  Helvy, 
you  are  wearing  yourself  out  with  troubles 
that  cannot  be  helped.    Let  me — " 

"The  standing  offer,  Howard,"  I  broke  in, 
trying  to  smile. 

"Now  that  I  know  the  real  truth,"  he  said 
sincerely,  "I  think  I  can  be  a  better  friend, 
although  I  may  never  be  your  husband." 

"We'll  seal  the  compact,"  I  said,  taking  both 
his  hands  in  mine,  and  we  stood  looking  into 
each  other's  eyes,  as  we  had  never  looked  before. 

Some  months  afterward  I  received  the  first 
letter  from  Hal: 

"I  swore  I  would  not  write  to  you  until  my 
mission  was  accomplished,"  he  wrote.  "You 
have  no  idea  of  the  governmental  red  tape 
to  be  gone  through  to  extradite  an  insane  man. 
They  want  his  pedigree  back  several  genera- 
tions and  yours  as  well.  I  fixed  one  up  for  you, 
with   dates   and    ancestors   that   may   surprise 


THE   MINOR   CHORD  313 

you,  but  you  will  have  to  swear  to  it  all 
now,  or  I  shall  be  in  a  pickle.  We  sail  on  the 
16th  inst.  I  have  visited  your  husband  several 
times,  and  the  poor  fellow  keeps  on  moaning 
'Minza,  Minza,'  so  plaintively." 

I  had  made  arrangements  with  a  private 
sanatorium  nearby  for  my  husband's  safe 
keeping  and  could  scarcely  await  the  time  for 
his  arrival. 

We  were  to  take  a  holiday — Howard  and  I — 
a  holiday  to  meet  my  mad  husband. 

On  the  day  the  steamer  arrived  in  New 
York,  Hal  telegraphed  to  us  when  to  meet 
them  at  the  station  in  the  little  Iowa  town 
where  the  asylum  was  situated.  They  did 
not  arrive  on  the  train  as  expected,  and  we 
returned  to  the  hotel  feeling  somewhat  anxious. 

An  hour  later  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door 
of  my  room.  It  was  Hal,  who  appeared  un- 
announced, as  handsome  and  enthusiastic  as 
ever. 

"We  are  here,"  he  whispered.  "Be  brave, 
Madame  Helvina,  be  brave." 

The  suspense  was  at  an  end,  and  I  was  to 
meet  my  lost  husband. 


314  THE  MINOR   CHORD 

He  was  then  in  a  room  at  that  very  hotel. 
Two  stalwart  Germans  stood  outside  in  the 
dark  corridor  as  I  approached  with  Hal  and 
opened  the  door  of  the  room. 

There  he  was  crouching  in  the  corner,  eating 
his  dinner  like  a  wild  beast.  This  my  husband ! 
His  mad  eyes  looked  up — strangely  unfamiliar. 
What  a  greeting  for  man  and  wife  after  twelve 
years'  parting.  He  rose  to  his  feet.  How  tall 
and  towering  he  seemed  as  the  light  from 
the  little  window  shone  full  on  his  face! 

"My  God!"  I  shrieked. 

I  could  not  be  mistaken.  It  was  not  Robert. 
It  was  an  utter  stranger. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 
A  Pretty  Wedding 

HOWARD  and  Hal  rushed  into  the 
room  at  my  shriek,  fearing  that  some- 
thing had  happened. 

I  did  not  know  whether  to  be  happy  or  sad, 
but  Hal  was  quite  crushed.  After  so  much 
expense  and  work,  the  madman  proved  to  be 
the  wrong  man;  but  Howard  looked  relieved. 
The  only  explanation  we  could  offer  was  that 
this  poor  madman  was  Robert's  companion, 
and  that  it  was  the  name  of  the  ill-fated  balloon 
which  he  moaned  so  continuously,  I  was  still 
to  be  left  in  uncertainty,  and  the  unfortunate 
man  was  taken  back  to  Germany. 

I  tried  to  console  Hal  in  his  disappointment, 
but  he  was  silent  and  soon  after  left. 

I  was  considerably  surprised,  therefore,  to 
receive  the  following  note  some  weeks  after: 

"Dear  Madame  Helvina:  Will  you  and  INIr. 
Wittaker  attend  our  wedding?  Smith ville, 
December  16 — Zella  and  I.  Hal." 

315 


316  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

It  was  an  abrupt  wedding  invitation,  unique 
in  its  way,  and  altogether  a  surprise. 

There  was  something  refreshing  and  stimu- 
lating in  meeting  those  two  young  lovers  who 
were  so  soon  to  be  man  and  wife.  Their  happi- 
ness was  infectious.  Zella  was  prettier  than 
ever. 

Tim  was  happy,  and  cheerfully  announced: 
"You  see,  Minza,  I  give  up  my  daughter,  but 
receive  in  return  a  son,  Minza,  they  are  so 
happy  together;   it  quite  reminds  me  of  our — " 

"Hush,  now,"  I  said  hastily,  "you  should 
not  be  telling  secrets  of  old  playmates." 

Howard  had  heard  it  and  naturally  put  two 
and  two  together. 

"And  so  you  two  were  playmates  in  days 
gone  by?"  he  inquired. 

"In  a  way,"  I  answered,  trying  to  change 
the  subject.  "By  the  way,  have  you  seen 
to  the  minister's  carriage  and  the  flowers 
for  the  wedding,  Howard?" 

"I  think  so — or  Mrs.  Campbell  has." 

The  two  younger  girls,  Lilian  and  Jessie, 
had  returned  home  from  the  conservatory 
at  which  they  studied,  so  that  they  might  be 


THE   MINOR   CHORD  317 

present  for  the  wedding  that  evening.  The 
service  was  short  and  simple.  Hal  and  Zella 
stood  beneath  a  bower  of  fresh  flowers  close  to 
Tim.  The  bride  in  her  beauty  reminded  me  of 
Angela — sister  of  my  childhood — and  it  seemed 
cruel  to  think  that  poor  blind  Tim  could  not 
see  his  sweet-faced  child.  The  bridegroom 
fully  realized  the  solemnity  of  the  occasion 
and  repeated  his  responses  several  times,  as 
if  to  emphasize  the  fact  that  he  was  being 
married  in  earnest;  he  nearly  upset  the  solem- 
nity of  the  ceremony. 

After  the  final  words  had  been  spoken  I 
was  more  cheerful;  I  began  to  feel  that  life 
was  not  so  gloomy,  after  all,  and  I  played  the 
Wedding  March  from  "Lohengrin." 

Tim  was  placed  at  the  head  of  the  table, 
with  Zella  and  Hal  on  one  side,  and  myself 
and  Howard  on  the  other. 

The  young  folks  left  for  their  new  home  in 
Chicago,  for  Hal  persisted  in  calling  himself 
a  lawyer.  Mrs.  Campbell,  in  her  kind,  motherly 
way,  had  taken  charge  of  all  the  arrangements 
for  the  wedding,  and  as  she  was  growing  old 
and  the  incessant  traveling  began  to  tell  upon 


318  THE   MINOR   CHORD 

her,  she  decided  to  remain  at  my  old  home  at 
Smithville  and  look  after  Tim  and  his  girls. 

"Dear  Auntie,"  I  said,  fondly  kissing  her, 
"how  can  I  ever  thank  you?" 

"Dinna  try  it,  my  bairn,"  she  answered, 
adding  with  a  twinkle,  "You  will  not  need  me 
always." 

"I  always  will,"  I  insisted. 

"Well,  well,  we  shall  see,"  she  replied,  as  she 
left  the  room. 

"Now  that  was  a  pretty  little  wedding," 
said  Howard,  as  we  went  to  the  old  home  to- 
gether. "Wasn't  it,  Helvy.'  And  it  put 
another  idea  into  my  head." 

"What  is  that?"  I  asked  with  a  yawTi. 

"You  would  look  so  charming  going  through 
the  same  ceremony  with — " 

"Howard,  how  can  you  ask  me?" 

"My  dear,"  he  said  firmly,  "I  must  insist; 
you  are  unreasonable.  There  is  no  doubt 
whatever  that  Robert  Burnette  is  either  insane 
or  dead,  and  you  are  free  to  marry  anybody 
you  like — even  me,  for  instance." 

"Howard,"  I  remonstrated,  "I  have  a  con- 
science." 


THE   MINOR   CHORD  319 

"Yes,"  he  agreed,  "and  I  have  a  love  which — " 

"Howard,  you  are  forgetting  our  compact." 

"Bother  the  compact!  I  was  a  fool  to  make 
it;  you  keep  me  at  arm's  length,  and  only  use 
me  as  a  business  machine.  I  won't  stand  it 
any  longer.     If  you  only  loved  me — " 

He  abruptly  rose  and  crossed  to  the  open 
window.  I  had  never  seen  him  in  such  a  mood. 
His  fine  eyes  were  ablaze  with  light;  his  voice 
trembled. 

"Howard,"  I  whispered,  crossing  the  room 
and  gently  placing  my  hand  on  his  shoulder, 
"I — I  do — love  you,  if  I  know  what  love  is, 
but  duty — " 

Mv  words  seemed  to  electrify  him. 

"You  mean  it?"  he  exclaimed. 

"Yes,  Howard,"  I  answered,  "but  we  cannot 
marry;  I  am  a  wife  until  I  am  proved  to  be  a 
widow." 

We  said  "good-night" — rather  soberly  for 
lovers. 

That  night  I  dreamed  of  the  heavenly  choir. 
The  harps  and  lyres  flooded  space  with  delicious 
harmony,  and  angels  and  archangels  and  the 
spirits   of   the   redeemed   sang   in   perfect   but 


320  THE   MINOR   CHORD 

utterly  unfettered  accord.  Each  mortal  sang 
of  his  own  life:  some  were  light  and  merry; 
others  were  sad  and  mournful,  and  sang  in 
plaintive  tones,  but  the  last  chord  always 
revealed  the  earthly  fortunes  of  the  singer — 
the  triumphant  major  resounded  the  record 
of  a  life  of  peace,  joy  and  happiness;  the  weird 
minor  echoed  the  experiences  of  a  past  full  of 
grief,  pain  and  sorrow. 

When  my  turn  shall  come,  what  chord  shall 
I  sustain  at  the  foot  of  the  Great  White  Throne? 


CHAPTER   XXXVIII 

The  Heart  Chord 

MY    dream    had    affected    me    strangely, 
as    all    such    visions    had    throughout 
my  childhood,  and  it  haunted  me  all 
the  next  day. 

Howard  came  down  from  the  hotel  to  tell 
me  that  he  would  have  to  return  to  the  city 
that  evening,  but  that  I  could  remain  in  Smith- 
ville  a  month  longer  if  I  so  desired,  before 
starting  in  on  the  season's  work. 

A  month  alone  without  Howard!  It  was  a 
dreary  prospect  to  look  forward  to.  It  brought 
about  the  realization  of  how  empty  my  life 
was  without  Howard.  He  had  been  so  near  to 
me  all  through  the  years,  sharing  alike  in 
triumphs  and  sorrows,  that  I  had  taken  his 
friendly  counsel  and  manly  arm  as  a  matter 
of  course.  Through  all  my  career  I  had  never 
considered  him  as  a  lover,  although  I  knew  him 
to  be  a  vital  part  of  my  life.  It  all  burst  upon 
me  now.    All   the  other  men   in   my  life  had 

321 


322  THE   MINOR   CHORD 

been  but  incidents — even  Bob  himself — they 
represented  Romance;  Howard  alone  stood  for 
abiding  Love.    But  how  could  I  marry  him? 

Just  then  a  letter  was  brought  me.  It  read 
as  follows: 

"My  dear  Madame  Helvina:  I  have  just 
composed  a  new  song,  of  which  you  are  the 
heroine  and  your  life  its  inspiration.  I  have 
dedicated  it  to  you,  and  hoping  you  will  pardon 
my  seeming  presumption  and  that  we  may  soon 
see  you  again  in  London, 

I  remain,  sincerely  your  friend, 

"Arundel  Sunderland. 

"P.  S. — A  copy  of  the  song  was  sent  by  this 
post." 

"Has  the  song  arrived?"  asked  Howard, 
when  he  had  read  the  letter. 

"No,  but  I'm  anxious  to  go  over  it,"  I 
said. 

"Yes,  so  am  I,"  said  Howard,  with  sarcasm. 
"It's  sure  to  be  good  if  it's  Arundel's.  I  fancy 
I  can  see  him  here  with  his  single  eyeglass 
glaring  at  you  like  a  one-eyed  owl." 

I  could  not  help  smiling  a  little  at  Howard's 
odd  parallel. 


THE   MINOR   CHORD  323 


<(  '-i 


'Your  life  its  inspiration,'  "  he  quoted 
from  the  letter.  "Well,  I  know  it  does  not 
strike  a  minor  chord,  anyway." 

"How  do  you  know,  Howard?"  I  asked. 

"I  do  not  know  positively,  but  I  feel  it; 
besides  the  critics  have  already  commented  upon 
the  peculiarity  of  his  compositions." 

"Well,  here's  the  song,"  I  said,  as  a  roll 
was  handed  to  me  by  Lilian,  who  had  just 
returned  from  the  post-ofRce. 

As  I  took  it,  my  dream  flashed  into  my 
mind,  and  connected  itself  with  the  letter  from 
Arundel.  An  idea  came  to  me.  I  would  let 
this  song  decide.     Turning  to  Howard,  I  said: 

"Howard,  the  last  chord  in  this  song,  which 
we  have  never  heard,  shall  tell  me  how  my  life 
is  to  continue.  If  its  last  chord  trembles  with 
plaintive  minor  strains,  my  life  must  continue 
as  it  is;  if  it  resounds  with  the  hope  and  buoy- 
ancy of  the  major  chord,  I  will  do  as  you  ask 
me,  and  marry  you." 

"Glory  be  to  the  Chord!"  he  exclaimed,  with 
outstretched  arms. 

"Remember,  Howard,"  I  said,  drawing  myself 
away,  "I  am  in  earnest.     If  that  last  chord  is 


324  THE  MINOR  CHORD 

a  minor,  my  life  must  continue  as  it  is — I  will 
never    marry." 

"But  it  won't  be,  Helvy,"  he  said  confi- 
dently. "It's  a  major  blooming  with  orange 
blossoms,  you  bet!"  Howard  was  like  a  boy 
when  pleased. 

How  little  did  Arundel  Sunderland  dream 
when  he  penned  that  last  chord,  that  he  was 
deciding  my  destiny! 

I  called  to  Lilian  and  Jessie,  who  were  at 
the  piano  in  the  adjoining  room,  and,  tearing 
the  wrapper  from  the  parcel,  handed  them  the 
sheet  of  music. 

"Girls,"  I  asked,  "will  you  play  and  sing 
this  for  me?  I  do  not  think  you  will  find  it 
diflScult." 

It  was  in  the  early  afternoon  twilight  of  a 
dull  December  day. 

Howard  and  I  sat  without  a  light  in  the  dear 
old  parlor  at  home,  the  scene  so  closely  asso- 
ciated with  the  great  sorrows  and  happinesses 
of  my  life.  The  loved  faces  of  my  lost  ones 
looked  down  on  us  from  the  pictures  on  the 
walls,  and  in  the  reflection  mother's  face  seemed 
to  smile  a  blessing. 


THE  MINOR   CHORD  325 

As  the  first  soft  notes  of  the  prelude  came 
from  the  next  room  under  LiHan's  deHcate 
touch,  Howard  took  my  hands  in  his.  The 
opening  phrase  of  the  music  awoke  sad  memories 
of  my  Hfe. 

Jessie's  sweet  voice  began  softly  chanting 
in  response  to  the  weird  harmony.  Those 
happy,  innocent  girls  little  knew  that  they 
held  a  life's  future  in  the  balance.  The  cres- 
cendo increased  as  the  tempo  quickened  and 
the  key  changed.  Howard  and  I  rose  together 
as  if  under  a  magic  spell.  His  face  grew 
strained  and  serious;  he,  too,  became  deeply 
affected  by  the  song  that  was  to  decide  our 
destiny. 

Minor  strains  mingled  with  the  major;  the 
climax  was  approaching,  measure  by  measure, 
with  impressive  chords,  to  the  stirring  note 
in  which  all  the  accumulated  passion  of  the 
song  was  gathered.  They  had  reached  the 
closing  retard,  and  the  long-sustained  tones 
were  soothing  to  me,  until  I  remembered  my 
vow. 

My  heart  almost  stood  still  and  my  nerves 
thrilled  and  tingled  as  the  singer's  last  note 


326  THE   MINOR   CHORD 

died  away.  Lilian  was  about  to  strike  the  last 
chord. 

"O  Lilian,  Lilian!"  I  screamed,  almost  re- 
penting my  vow. 

The  chord  was  struck! 

It  was  a  plaintive  minor,  but  one  soft  mod- 
ulated note  transposed  it  to  a  joyous  major. 

I  turned  to  Howard,  smiling,  erect,  and 
triumphant,  but  with  a  look  in  his  eyes  that 
promised  me  the  unselfish  love  of  his  loyal 
heart,  the  refuge  from  life's  cares  and  ills  which 
every  true  woman  prizes  above  all  other  earthly 
blessings. 

"Thank  God,  it  was  not  a  minor  chord," 
said  Howard.  His  face  was  radiant  with  the 
light  of  love,  and  I  was  supremely  happy. 

The  Heart  Chord  triumphed. 

THE    END 


